


Razor Sharp

by Laikin394



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Magic, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 62,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1741553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laikin394/pseuds/Laikin394
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumpelstiltskin believes Belle to be dead, until he encounters someone all too familiar. However, the girl has no memories of him.</p><p><strike>Smallish </strike>sequel to "On a Knife-Edge".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mirrors Are Liars

**Author's Note:**

> To all those people who secretly (and openly) hoped for a sequel.  
> Where it [began](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1084009/chapters/2179686)

Rumpelstiltskin watches impassively as the flame transfers to the wick, flickering before it rises up and gently blows the match off. A year, it has been a year.

Those, who say it gets better with time, are either liars or complete idiots. Because it doesn’t fucking get any better.

He grips the edge of the table hard, leaning forward and fixing his eyes on the warm glow of the candle. The pain is still as sharp and intolerable as it had been, squeezing at his heart when he is alone and roiling his stomach when he is – very seldom – around people. It is wrong that life went on. It feels wrong to see someone laugh, to have the sun rise every day, when _she_ isn’t there.  The world should have stopped and wept at his loss, shedding the tears he no longer has. What is the point in living, if every breath pushes him further away from the time they were together? Even her name is painful, stirring so much emotion, his whole body shakes at the sound of it.

“Belle,” he whispers, his body trembling as if he expects a blow at being so bold to call it. Nothing happens, of course. Even the empty space of his turret doesn’t not carry the sound far. He sighs and closes his eyes. “Belle.”

Rumpelstiltskin knows she’s gonebut knowing, realizing and accepting it are different. No matter what his mind tells him, he still hopes. Hopes against all reason for a miracle that will never happen.

He is bleeding even though no wounds are visible, except for an endless consuming _nothing_ in his chest. Losing his loved one is the same as having his soul ripped out. That is , if anyone is optimistic or foolish enough to believe the Dark One even had such thing as a soul to begin with.

Rumpelstiltskin straightens and bares his uneven yellowed teeth in a savage grin. Oh yes, he muses, there is hardly any doubt left as to who the people of the fairy tale land should fear now.

He remembers it all too vividly. Regina’s dress was dark red and only glistening damp spots gave away the patches where the fabric was soaked in her blood. Red had been her favourite colour, had it not? How fitting. To give the Evil Queen some credit, she wasn’t scared at first, holding her head up high despite the flourishing bruises on her neck and the dishevelled hair. She even tried snapping at him, her sneering and lilting high voice slicing through him. “ _Your girl is gone”_ , she said, “ _truly and forever we both know there’s no coming back, and all because of you. What did you use to say? Dead is dead?_ ”

His memory is foggy there, as his whole world turned red with the fury that boiled in his veins, but he thinks that was the first time he hit a woman. Not the Dark Ones, enslaved by the power before his time; no, him, Rumpelstiltskin, raising his hand at a female. He’s not proud of the deed yet when he glances at his scaled hand, flexing his long clawed fingers, it feels strangely satisfying.

Regina told him everything, although the story was short.  He knocked the Queen’s breath out, by throwing his body against the wall, which it hit with an unpleasant crack. Not that Rumpelstiltskin cared how much noise he was making or whether her bones were intact; the witch would no longer need them after he was through with her and hardly anyone in her castle had the guts or ability to stand up to him.

He didn’t want to believe her words, they couldn’t be true. Yet he knew they were, when Regina’s eyes widened with terror – true horror that had nothing to do with the pulsing waves of dark magic he radiated nor the pain she felt - and he turned to see who she was looking at. There, at the door stood a tall boy, who froze for a moment while his mind processed what he was seeing. A moment was enough, and Rumpelstiltskin immobilised the youth on the spot. His face was familiar, although he couldn’t recall the name. Daly? Danton? Damon? Names hold power, but this one escaped him.

“Daniel,” Regina chocked and the pieces of a puzzle clicked together. Oh, revenge could be so sweet sometimes. He made the boy disappear with a flick of his wrist and returned his attention to his ex-alumni and now a victim.

He played with her, enjoying her pleas – to save her lover’s life if not to spare hers - and threats and the names she called him. But it got boring all too soon.  Rumpelstiltskin looked around lazily and decided he was done there. Throwing another glance at the Queen he slowly moved toward an exit. And then he set the room on fire.

Her shrieks still echoed in his ears as he unhurriedly walked to the main doors of the castle. Stone doesn’t burn well, unless you incinerate it with magic, in which case it is positively ablaze by the time you make your way out. The flames licked at his boots and he wrinkled his nose at the smell of burning leather but it mattered little; the fire did him no harm even though the smoke scratched at the back of his throat.

People rushed from the castle, and he let them. His business was with the Queen, not her subjects. He cocked his head, admiring the roaring orange and yellow flames and threw his head back, laughing. His maniac giggle – for he _was_ insane at that moment - sounded unnaturally sharp in the night as he lifted his arms and danced to his own music, waltzing around the castle, mindless of any spectators. He knew Belle would not approve of violence and destruction, but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t there and she would never be.

When the merriment subdued and he frowned again, he returned home, materializing in the dungeon. The boy was there, hunched in a corner and when he looked up, Rumpelstiltskin felt like he was stricken by a lightning. The lad had blue eyes, and despite them being full of tears, the eyes betrayed no fear of the sorcerer. He silenced the pup with a shaking hand; somehow it felt that if he was to speak, Rumpelstiltskin would lose his mind entirely. He just stood and dumbly stared at those familiar yet alien eyes.

He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t bring himself to harm the boy, even though bile rose to his throat at the thought that this person lives when Belle… He was so obsessed with his own rage he didn’t even look for the girl’s body. It probably burned with the castle and he couldn’t even give her a proper burial. Rumpelstiltskin didn’t want to imagine what it would be like to touch her cold body, to roll her eyelids to cover over her turquoise eyes, closing them forever and to carry her to her grave.

The boy – Daniel, his name was Daniel – reached out for him, stretching his hand palm up and the sorcerer snapped back into reality. Well, something had to be done. He cast a sleeping curse, taking the lad’s limb body to an island in the middle of the sea, where he’d lay dreaming until the spell could be broken by a True Love’s kiss. True Love’s kiss that would never happen.

Rumpelstiltskin exhales slowly as his fingers swipe across the candle flame. Fires can be both pretty and deadly and he finds it mesmerizing. His own flame was extinguished a year ago and it was his own fault. His left hand unconsciously wraps around small glass vial in his pocket and he grips the smooth cool glass. Forgetting potion. Simple solution to complicated matters. Memories are pain and he has always been a coward. But even though he brewed the potion, he cannot bring himself to drink it. Belle loved him and he cannot betray that, even if the memory of her loss can be too much to bear. Neither will he put an end to his existence, no matter how appealing that seems. She wanted him to live and he will grant her this last wish. Yet he carries the bottle with him as another reminder of his weakness.

Rumpelstiltskin pinches the wick and the delicate flame dies between his fingers. The corner of his mouth tugs up at that irony; putting an end to something comes easier to him than creation. He walks to his chair, slouching as he sits down. His eyes dart to the top left drawer under his desk and he purses his lips tighter. He will not do it, he swore to himself he wouldn’t. He pushes the chair back and props his legs on the table, crossing them at the ankles. The drawer, or, rather, what is in it, still calls to him and he has to fold his arms on his chest not to open it. It’s silly, it won’t work, he’s done it countless times before. But it is an obsession, a tick he cannot control and he promises it will be the last time when he slides the drawer open and reaches inside.

The mirror looks the same as it was the previous day when he took it out. The worn frame and the clouded surface are still intact, although he must have thrown the thing at every wall of his lab, but the protection spell holds well. He grasps the cool silver with both hands, raising it to his face.

“Show me my Belle,” he orders, just like a thousand times before. His heart sinks a little, just like each time he glimpses dark curly hair on women (perhaps he should cast a curse to ensure no one possesses long hazel curls, almost red at the tips because it’s too easy to mistake those girls for another one) and just as yesterday, the smoke swirls under the perfectly polished glass and nothing happens. To his own surprise, he puts the mirror away carefully. The day was longbut the night will be longer, he knows. Perhaps he should spin or perhaps he should create a new poison. If his mood doesn’t improve – of course it won’t – he may even try the effects on himself; there’re some perks to being immortal.

Just as he stands up, he feels a warm tug of magic at the nape of his neck. Someone’s calling for him. Considering the hour and the insistency of the pull on his skin, it’s someone truly desperate. He cannot refuse a deal, they’re both his strength and his weakness. He summons his dragon-hide coat, flicking at the spikes of his collar and dissolves in a cloud of thick purple smoke.

***

The man was desperatebut it didn’t make him less pathetic, he thinks as he breathes in the rich night air and decides to walk to the outskirts of the village. Money, the oaf wanted gold as if it could solve his problems. Funnily enough, the price he had to pay was…

Rumpelstiltskin freezes because what he hears makes him weak in the knees. That voice could belong to only one person and she couldn’t be… There’s whispering and a soft trilling laugh and his blood goes cold despite the warm night air. He should leavebut he can’t, he has to make sure.

The sorcerer creeps through the obscuring trees, getting deeper into the garden. His eyes catch a tall man holding someone’s hand, but the other person is still out of his view. The man turns and walks away towards the mansion, while his companion remains. Rumpelstiltskin can feel his heart beating through his chest and it’s a miracle the woman – because the voice was definitely female – cannot hear him. He knows he should disguise himself or become invisiblebut he just cannot bring himself to move, his eyes wide and fixed on the stranger. From where he’s standing, he can only see the ridiculously volume golden dress. Then, suddenly, he is walking forward, taking in the sight of a tight bodice and bared shoulders, but the girl he’s thinking of would never wear anything as flamboyant or revealing, not mentioning the corset that would squeeze the breath out of her. He must be under a spell for he cannot divert his eyes. She’s not Belle, he tells himself, Belle is gone and you’re just searching for signs that are not there. The hair means nothing, the similar voice _is_ nothing and he should return before he’s noticed. She haunts his dreams and that’s why he sees what he wants to instead of admitting he’ll never meet her face to face again.

The girl turns towards a rose bush and he hisses as if the sight of her profile burns him like acid. Because it does. She fully turns, her bright eyes searching forsource of the noise. Before either of them can say anything, Rumpelstiltskin lunches forward, gripping her around the waist and crashing her small body against his. She freezes in his arms but then starts to push him away yet the man only holds her closer.

“Belle, oh Belle,” he whimpers as he holds her. “I’ve found you, Belle. Belle.” His fingers feel the silkiness of her hair. If it’s a dream, he never wants to know anything but this illusion.

He hides his face in the crook of her neck, because his eyes sting and he doesn’t want to put her off with his tears. It’s bliss, he’s in heaven, because it is Belle, she smells like Belle and the weight of her is so familiar. It cannot be truebut her body is solid and he sobs dryly, relieved and terrified and lost.

And then the girl begins to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDC what you've just read, Regina is alive and well and unhurt. I'm sticking to that and will not accept anything else!
> 
> I really did not want to write it because of the insulting reviews and hate messages i get on ff.net and i'm still hesitant on whether i even should to, even though ideas swirl in my head and tiny evil voices tell me to do it. But i was itching to share (slipping back in this AU was suspiciously easy), so if you have a hate comment that will save the world from this sequel, please go ahead. deleting is easier than posting
> 
> those who can actually be nice on the internet - i hope it wasn't of much pain to read (the text is completely un-betaed, kick me if you find a mistake :)


	2. Re-acquainted

Belle’s voice is so panicked and so high, it pierces his ears in the most uncomfortable way.

“Papa!” she shrieks but he keeps clinging to her. “Papa, help! Gaston!”

Rumpelstiltskin registers the unfamiliar name but it’s no matter, he’s too absorbed in the moment and the swirl of emotions that wash over him. He still cannot believe it’s real and his mind races with ideas of how it can even be possible. Belle, however, manages to give him a hard shove and he steps back, feeling confused. Is it a part of a game of sorts? She takes a deep breath for what looks like will be a long, urgent scream for help and the best thing he can think of is to cover her mouth with his hand. He would hate to be interrupted at this moment, he drinks in the sight of her eagerly and he craves her presence more than ever. He will not share her attention with anybody else. The feel of her warm lips on his palm make him shiver, stirring the memories of soft whispers and bold touches from another lifetime.

Belle’s eyes are as wide as saucers and she appears indignant, refusing to be silenced like that. Rumpelstiltskin holds back a curse as she bites him, sinking her sharp teeth deep into his hand. He watches the girl wipe her mouth with disgust when he jerks his hand away. He’s bubbling inside with feelings that change and blend into each other like coloured glass in a kaleidoscope, and this situation, where she looks at him in comical wonder mixed with fear is just so ridiculous that he snorts.  And then there’s no stopping it. He doubles over and giggles for a good minute and her puzzled stare just makes him break into peals of laughter. Belle decides he will not assault her after all and takes a step closer.

“Who are you?” she asks cautiously and it sobers him up.

“It’s me, Belle,” he says simply, but she frowns.

“Belle? We are on no grounds for such familiarity, sir. My name is Isabelle, lady on Avonlea but I do not believe we have met.” Her eyes swipe over him and Rumpelstiltskin becomes all too aware of his hideous appearance. He has never been particularly attractive but he has thinned down over the last year so much, his face looks like a skull, with his sickly greenish skin pulled tight over it and his reptilian eyes sunken deep into the sockets. He knows he’s ugly but her look hurts him more than imaginable. She never used to look at him like that, her stare so… cold and distant, appraising. “I would have remembered that.”

Rumpelstiltskin straightens and tries to appear calm. He’s not sure what is going on, if he has angered her or whether Belle regrets her association with him and he tries to reason with her.

“Remember Prince Charming’s dungeon?” he starts only to be promptly interrupted as the girl winces.

“Oh you are here to enquire about that incident? It was over two years ago and people are _still_ too curious. You will be pleased to know that even though I spent five days in Queen Snow’s prison; it was an unfortunate misunderstanding as I was mistaken for some assassin. Since I was completely innocent and the real bravo was captured, I was released shortly. Now, tell me your name,” she demands.

Rumpelstiltskin admires how confidently she speaks and how well she looks. Belle seems slightly smaller, but that is probably due to the corset. The gold of the dress gives her skin a warm glow and her eyes are as bright as he remembers. Her hair is longer, although it’s done up, a few locks that escaped the bun fall below her waist. He cannot help diverting his eyes from her flushed face to her chest, searching for the scar over her heart. He knew there wouldn’t be any marks left by Regina’s magic but his stomach still twists at the idea.

She looks at him expectantly and he decides it would not do any good to try her patience. He is trespassing, after all.

“But Bel… milady,” the sorcerer corrects himself and the lady of Avonlea gives him a slight nod of approval. “Do you happen to recall who your prison mate was?”

She frowns again, irritated at his persistency but replies nevertheless.

“No one. There was no one else in the dungeons but me.”

He blinks in confusion and feels like magically reaching out to her to see if there a mental block of sorts. Belle would not be able to keep the mask of ignorance for so long but he fails to understand why her memory has been wiped clean or, rather, why her memory of _him_ is altered.

“State your name and the purpose of your being in my father’s gardens or I shall call the guards at this very moment,” she threatens.

“Forgive my manners, milady,” he says with a sigh and put his left leg in front of him as he gracefully bows at the waist with a flourish of his hands. “Rumpelstiltskin,” he introduces himself, rolling the R noticeably while keeping his bronze eyes fixed on her face. He silently hopes the name will ring some bells and it surely does. Isabelle’s face lightens up and her mouth drops open in a look of childhood amazement.

“Ooooh I’ve read about you,” she exclaims, lifting her skirt off the ground as she stepped closer. “You are the dealmaker!”

It’s not the effect he prayed for but there is little else to do except to play along. He is both pleased she had heard about him but learning that her knowledge came from a book (like that is a surprise) makes him feel like a relic. Belle studies him with enhanced curiosity and he simply waits for what she’s going to say next.

“Can I… Would it be possible for me to conclude a deal with you?” She smiles as he perks up at the word _deal_. Her being alive is the greatest gift of all and even if she doesn’t remember him, it’s her, looking at him, talking to him. Rumpelstiltskin could tell her it’s unnecessary, that he’d grant her every wish despite the cost, that he could make her the queen of the world in a blink of an eye, to put his dagger in her small hand, crawl at her feet and have her command him for eternity and he would go it gladly. But a part of him is also curious as to what this Isabelle could want from him.

“Indeed we can, dearie,” he drawls in his impish voice as he cocks his head to the side. “What is it you desire?”

She licks her lips nervously.

“You see, ah… There’s actually a betrothal feast as my father has arranged for me to marry sir Gaston,” Isabelle explains and his heart drops. Rumpelstiltskin is not sure he can take it. This evening has been too much for him. Adrenaline is pumping through his veins as the day turned from pain to joy and to disappointment again. He should be happy she’s safe and sound, or that she has a love-life; but all he wants is to snatch her away back to his Castle after turning this bloody _Gaston_ to dust. She’s come so close he can count each of her lashes but it makes no difference. She’s not the Belle he knew and this twisted torture of not having her is even more cruel.

“Say no more, dearie. So you want a dress to outdo every bride that ever lived? A grand castle for you and your young fiancé? Or, perhaps, to ensure your first born is a boy?”

This not-Belle scowls at each of the suggestions apparently finding that since there’re just two of them in the gardens she no longer needs to act like a lady.

“Gods no! Actually, I do not want to marry him at all and since I failed to communicate this to my father, I thought you might be of assistance. I need a way to escape this marriage _and_ not to worsen the relationship with the Duke.”

Rumpelstiltskin giggles as he walks around the girl to give himself time to think. It’s perfect, he’s content that she holds no feelings for the Duke’s spawn but he also needs to figure out a way to bring her old self back. Memories are complicated and fragile, but it’s not an impossible task. He cannot just give up, not now.

Isabelle turns her head, not quite trusting to have the sorcerer behind her but she doesn’t seem unnerved by his presence anymore.

“So thoughtful,” he notes as his fingers stroke his chin and his boots thud softly on the ground. “Putting your interest first but at the same time not forgetting about the happiness of your people. Well, I might have just what you need!”

Rumpelstiltskin makes a full circle and stands in front of her, leaning over till his hair almost brushes her face. She doesn’t flinch and he wonders whether she’s always been brave or her body at some level recognized him as no threat.

“The question is, dearie,” he breathes the word right into her face but she tilts her head up to meet his gaze with a challenge, “what price are you willing to pay?”

“Name your price and I shall say whether it is acceptable,” she offers and he raises his eyebrows at her, smirking.

“Oh-ho, but that’s not how it works, don’t you know?”

She licks her lips again and his eyes dart to the tip of her tongue that wets the seam of her mouth before disappearing. Rumpelstiltskin knows it’s not an attempt at seduction but he finds it quite distracting.

“Then… you could make an exception, perhaps?” she says boldly and the sorcerer pulls back with surprise. It’s supposed to be the other way – him prancing around, intimidating his victims who shake in their boots but with _not-his-Belle_ he feels cornered. How far into him can she see, really?

“A kiss,” he whispers and her eyes widen. It’s wrong, he knows, to trade for her affection but he believes, he desperately _wants_ to believe that it will work. He’s never loved anyone but her and as she willingly gave up her heart for him, she loved him, too. He clings to the hope that some remainders of that love are still in her and that a kiss would trigger them. “That is my price.”

Isabelle frowns but at least she doesn’t shriek at this perverted imp in her garden or look nauseous.

“Why would you want that?” she questions and Rumpelstiltskin waves his hands dismissively.

“I have my reasons. Consider it a whim. Do we have a deal?”

The girl spends the longest time gazing at him. She’s not looking at his scaled skin or uneven yellowed teeth. She stares into his eyes, searching for something only she can find, neither of them blinking until it gets too uncomfortable and he turns away briefly.

“Deal,” she finally agrees and puts her hand out for a shake. Rumpelstiltskin squeezes her fingers lightly, making sure the touch doesn’t linger longer than necessary.

“So, where do I sign? We need a contract, right?”

“If you insist,” he jokes but her response is firm and could pass for a command.

“I do.”

“Very well,” he consents and produces a scroll out of thin air. Snapping the fingers of his left hand, he makes a fluffy blue quill appear in them and Isabelle gasps at the small display of magic.

Rumpelstiltskin smiles and offers both items to her. Instead of instantly signing it, her eyes scan the contract. She doesn’t need to bother with it, he has no intent of tricking her, never her, but he swells with pride a little at her foresight.

“Is Gaston truly not the Duke’s son?” Belle glances up at him and the sorcerer shrugs.

“Does it matter, dearie? Fact or fiction, it will get you out of this marriage.”

“I think it matters,” she presses and he clicks his tongue. Why can she bend him so easily with so little effort?

“Yes it’s true. The Duchess has never burdened herself with being faithful,” Rumpelstiltskin confirms and the girl relaxes a little as she signs her name at the bottom of the scroll in bold confident letters. The parchments glows faint purple before the man rolls it up and hides it in the inner pocket of his coat.

“Now that it’s done…” his voice trails off and he feels awkward. Perhaps, it wasn’t such a brilliant idea after all. He’s nervous and his palms become damp and sticky with sweat. He can swear his heart is someplace in his throat. He is a mess and he hopes it doesn’t show much.

“I guess you want your payment now,” Belle says calmly and closes her eyes.

She seems gathered and unafraid and he doesn’t dare touch her. He needs the kiss to work, otherwise…

Carefully, making sure no part of his body comes into contact with hers and still half-expecting to wake up, Rumpelstiltskin closes the distance between them. He holds his breath as his lips ghost over hers. Belle doesn’t pull away and the need to be gentle almost breaks him.

He presses his lips to hers slightly; she gives a shaken sigh but remains still. Even such a small touch seems too intense, he remembers so many other kisses and shuts his eyes tight. Her lips are warm and her breath is sweet and he wills the overwhelming love he feels for her to work the miracle his magic can’t. Her lips are soft and he moves his mouth over hers so lightly the touch could be mistaken for a caress of wind. Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t feel any whisper of magic and thinks that perhaps he needs to loosen up; his body is as tight as a bowstring. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, he wishes he could pull her in an embrace but he’s afraid she’ll get scared away if he paws at her, even though the kiss appears cold and impersonal when their bodies don’t touch.

Rumpelstiltskin increases the pressure of his lips and Belle sighs, parting hers a little. He takes it as an incentive and captures her bottom lip, nibbling on it softly. She raises her hands but doesn’t push him away, resting them on the lapels of his coat. Rumpelstiltskin nearly ceases to breathe, the excitement shooting through him as she mimics his movements. She’s a bit clumsy and he hopes it’s due to the lack of experience – or, more likely, the altered memories – than her ex-fiancé being a poor teacher. Belle’s lips stretch in a smile as their noses bump but she tilts her hand to the right adjusting the angle. His control is about to fly out the window when the tip of her tongue carefully slides across his bottom lip and he does his best not to moan.

“Isabelle, my girl, where are you?” A deep voice cuts through the summer air and Rumpelstiltskin jumps away from Belle as if he was burnt. “It wouldn’t do to miss your own betrothal feast,” the man chides and the sorcerer hopes it’s her father and not Gaston who took a habit of calling her “his girl”.

Belle is flushed both from the kiss and the embarrassment of being nearly caught. She looks at him and gives Rumpelstiltskin a tiny smile and her eyes hold a different expression now but it’s not one of recognition.

“Leave,” she whispers and he feels like he was punched hard in the stomach. His face contorts and he hopes Belle didn’t notice that or at least couldn’t decipher what exactly it relates to.

He’s just been dismissed and he has no reason to stay. The man tries not to look her in the eye and he nods, turning away, his back stiff.

“Rumpelstiltskin?” she calls before he exits her grounds. It’s the first time she says his name tonight and it rolls from her lips effortlessly, sweet and gentle sounding where others pronounce it like a venomous curse. It only adds to the stabbing pain.

“It was a real pleasure meeting you,” she adds and he shakes his head. She cannot mean it to be as playful as it appears to him; she’s just being polite and is not talking about the kiss, but still it sounds ambiguous. He waves a hand over his shoulder in good-bye, and even though he doesn’t turn, he can swear she’s watching him depart with a smile on her face.

***

Rumpelstiltskin paces around his lab, reflecting on the events of the evening and out of all emotions, he feels anger rapidly boiling inside him. He spent a whole _year_ drowning in pity and self-loathing, a year full of regrets while suffering the maddening weight of his loss. And all this time Belle was near, painfully close, a breath away, smiling, reading, getting _engaged_.

He kicks a stool watching it hit the bookcase with dark satisfaction. He was such a fool. Why did he never search for Belle’s body, why did he take Regina’s words by faith, what if he burned the castle while his love was still inside, alive but unconscious?

Rumpelstiltskin grunts and feels like he deserves a good kick. Then, remembering something, he darts to his desk, picking up the mirror.

“Show me my Belle,” he barks but as before, nothing happens. He grits his teeth hard but the surface is cloudy and grey. Rumpelstiltskin grips the silver handle so hard he’s certain the imprints of his fingers will remain on it. “Damn you! You filthy lying…” He mutters a curse, shaking the mocking object for good measure but nothing changes. Except that he finally realizes what the problem actually is.

“Show me Isabelle of Avonlea,” Rumpelstiltskin commands and this time the stupid glass obeys. He watches Belle talk gravely to a large man who he guesses is her father, and then they start arguing. He puts the mirror aside face down.

So much time wasted, so many unnecessary excruciating breaths taken and to what avail? But what if that’s how things were meant to be? Belle is with her family, she has her own life, she is… happy. He offered her nothing but solitude, locking her up in his castle. Does he have any right to interfere, to selfishly influence her destiny, to put his wishes over hers? Perhaps he should leave things as they are, to pause and think about what she wants and needs?

The bloody mirror may have caught him on a technicality, but it’s right. Belle is not _his_ , she doesn’t love him, not anymore. Falling for him once was a miracle, but asking for it twice? Could she even love him? Would she love him if she remembered? Did loving him bring her anything but misery and suffering? He knows he won’t forgive himself for giving up on searching for her just because he presumed she was dead, so why should she do it?

Rumpelstiltskin’s hands reach once again for the forgetting potion. Simple and clean, even with a great price to pay. Since Belle holds no memory of him, wouldn’t his own oblivion be fair?


	3. In the Garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely, entirely, **ridiculously** OOC. I fell through a fluff portal.  
>  And yes, I think there must be some substitute for a heart that Belle has to make her believe she is normal (except for not being able to love which she doesn’t realize yet) and to ensure her blood circulates.

He knows it’s wrong, but he cannot help it. Rumpelstiltskin watches Isabelle – will she ever be his Belle again? – through the mirror. He learns that her every day is routine and predetermined. She is awaken early by her maid who helps her dress and braids her hair. Isabelle wears mostly gowns now, but nothing as colourful and revealing as the golden dress. The look on her face when the maid laces her in a corset suggests that she doesn’t like those garments even if they become her.

Rumpelstiltskin knows now that no matter what mood the girl is in, she always greets her father with a peck on the cheek before sitting down to breakfast. He guesses that her father is probably considering the new marriage and they had several arguments about this (because there had been letters she pointed at and him waving his hands in exasperation) as Isabelle does not approve of either of the suitors he suggests. Rumpelstiltskin knows he will soon have to do something; he cannot tolerate the idea of someone else touching the girl less seeing her wed to anyone.

The sorcerer doesn’t like that man, Isabelle’s father; he appears to be big, gracious and quick to laugh but he turns into a harsh unyielding ruler in the blink of an eye, leaving the girl on the verge of tears when she flees the room after a particularly unpleasant talk. What kind of parent would force his child to marry against her will? But then, what kind of father would want to see his daughter with an ancient morphed creature?

Rumpelstiltskin fills in on the details of her life, regretting that he never asked, he never wondered what kind of existence she carried before meeting him.

He watches her sit on council meetings; her father most likely insists she learns how to govern yet he never sees her speak her mind at those gatherings (does he prohibit her?) and Isabelle is always present when his subject come to sir Maurice with their grievances. Apart from these duties, the girl is mostly left to herself. Rumpelstiltskin is surprised that despite her being kind and smiling at everyone in the castle, from her maid to the boy who cleans the stables and being able to remember their small life troubles and offer gentle advice (he just senses she does), she doesn’t have any friends. Her hobbies are narrowed down to stitching and reading and although her maid is usually sitting at her side, the woman takes very little interest in what Isabelle talks about and dozes off more often than not.

Rumpelstiltskin carries the mirror with him everywhere, taking comfort in seeing his love and knowing she is well. He feels like a pervert spying on her, but he quickly diverts his eyes when the girl needs her privacy. He wishes the mirror had been crafted better, that it could allow him to hear her, to be able to touch her and feel the warmth of her skin seep into his fingers instead of the coolness of the smooth, unfeeling glass.

Then, a week later, she does something odd and he puts the straw aside, getting up from his spinning wheel, gripping the mirror with both hands and raising it to his face. Isabelle sneaks into the gardens, glancing around like a thief to make sure no one is following her. Rumpelstiltskin thinks she may have come there to read, but the sun is setting and provides little light that would make her strain her eyes to make out the words; besides, the book remains unopened in her lap. Although the girl’s hand squeezes it quite hard, he thinks she’s not even aware of the thing as she stares off into space dreamily.

Isabelle must be waiting for someone, the man decides, perhaps another lover boy. He scowls at the thought as it both angers him and piques his curiosity; but she surprises him by withdrawing deeper in the gardens when she must hear steps approaching. Well, it may only mean that whoever she’s looking to meet does not come from her mansion. The girl remains on the bench till the stars come out and then straightens up, smoothing out her skirt with a sigh – he thinks it’s a sigh, judging by how her shoulders droop a little and how her chest moves when she exhales – and leaves the garden.

She does it the following day too and the evening after that as well. Isabelle sits there, under rustling leaves while the wind plays with her hair. Rumpelstiltskin cannot figure out why she is doing it, he wonders what the purpose of those visits are, why she needs to hide away from her maid in the dark gardens, sitting there alone and in silence – for whomever she awaits never shows himself.

On the fifth day of her peculiar sallies to the garden she looks more excited. Rumpelstiltskin can tell there is something on her mind, because there is a certain glow about her face and a sparkle in her eyes. She looks positively dreamy and her mouth is slightly ajar. Isabelle’s breathing quickens and her fingers fly to her lips. She shuts her eyes as her fingertips trace the contours of her pink mouth.

Realization strikes him and he flinches. It’s nearly impossible and too good to be true. Is it _him_ she’s thinking of? Is it _him_ she expects? His stomach flutters and Rumpelstiltskin runs his hands through his hair. Oh dear gods, what does he do, he cannot just…

Isabelle decides for him, for he sees her lips move and form the words and even though he cannot hear her, the warm tingle of magic down his back prompts him and realizes she’s calling for him. He bolts up immediately, feeling zealous enough to jump out of his skin. Tradition suggests he should be called upon thrice, but to hell with convenances.

He materializes soundlessly right behind her just in time to catch her faintly whispering his name. He could probably listen to her do it for centuries. Rumpelstiltskin is amazed at how his heart, beating through his chest, doesn’t warn her of his presence and bends down, carefully looming over her and inhaling the scent of her hair deeply. It’s different from what he remembers - summer herbs and fresh-cut grass - but underneath it’s familiar, something he cannot quite put a name to, something of _Belle_ that reminds him of lazy mornings when he used to wake up in her arms with her tangled hair spread across her shoulders and his pillow. But he shouldn’t allow those thoughts; he can resort to them in private. There must be a reason she called him here and, most likely, it’s not the reason he dreams of.

“You know, dearie,” he whispers close enough that his lips nearly brush the shell of her ear, “one may get a wrong image when such a beautiful lady calls an old monster for an unchaperoned meeting in the privacy of her deserted gardens.”

 She jumps up, quickly spinning around to face the intruder, her arms thrown in front of her protectively. However, she recognizes him quickly and instead of scolding the man for startling her, Isabelle actually _smiles_ at him. Well, she has always been one of an… unusual kind.

“Y-you came!” she stutters, lowering her hands and the book she held flops to the ground.

She fidgets, trying to make out in the dim light of dawn where it landed while Rumpelstiltskin gracefully approaches, picking up the volume and offering it to her with his outstretched arm. She thanks him clumsily and takes the book, blushing when her fingers touch his for a brief moment. He can swear she does it on purpose; she could have accepted the book without any need for contact but he’s pleased, more than he should be and a corner of his mouth curls up in a knowing smirk.

“You called,” he reminds her and just because he can do it, he reaches for her hand and brings it to his lips, planting a dry kiss just above her knuckles. After all, manners are important. He straightens up, enjoying how the blush creeps down her neck now and he quirks an eyebrow up at her. She still hasn’t pulled her hand back, regarding him with awe and he holds her small palm in a loose grip. “Milady?”

“Ah yes, sorry, I…” she babbles and then jerks her hand away and drops him a quick curtsey. He finds it incredibly endearing how timid, and yet at the same time coy she is as he seems to do his very best to suppress an enormous grin that threatens to spread across his face.

Isabelle seems to gather herself but she doesn’t know how to begin a conversation. She smoothes her braided hair back and rests her hand on the side of her neck, over her rapidly beating pulse.

“You wanted something, dearie?” Rumpelstiltskin prompts as the silence stretches and there is that nervous lip-licking of hers again.

“Yes, yes!” she clings to that thread of conversation gratefully and looks up at him. “I wanted to… a book. I wanted a book.”

“A book?” he repeats slowly and she nods. Rumpelstiltskin looks at the volume she holds pointedly. “And how has this one offended you to have you so eager to swap it for another one?”

“There’s nothing wrong with this one. I just wanted a… a particular book.”

Rumpelstiltskin steeples his clawed hands under his chin and stares at the girl openly. If she minds, she doesn’t let her displeasure known.

“And there is no other way you could acquire this book of yours, hm?”

“N-no,” she lies.

“And you thought it would be wise to call upon the Dark One to obtain it?”

“Yes,” she says firmly, and despite his best intimidating glare she doesn’t even wince. He’s intrigued and secretly proud of it. He loves the way she can stand up to him, even when all she knows is the childish stories about the spinner her wet nurse probably scared her with.

“So what is this book?”

There is a pause and he is tempted to catch her on making the whole thing up; it doesn’t take her too long though.

“A book on beasts,” Isabelle says confidently.

“Beasts? Interesting. What kind of beasts?” he enquires, a little taken aback by her choice.

“Magical creatures.”

“The kind that lurk in the gardens?”

“Maybe.”

“So you want to learn about their weaknesses?” Rumpelstiltskin goes on and he cannot decide whether he is appalled or fascinated. Just what exactly is the girl up to?

“Habits.”

“To defeat the monster?”

“You’re not a monster,” she protests and he jabs a finger at her.

“Aha! I knew it! You want to find a way to slay me!”

“To get to know you,” she counters softly.

“And you’d do it under the books guidance?”

“At first.” Oh she’s just driving him out of his mind with those little games and he needs to cut them short.

“What? Why would you want _that_?”

“Because you’re interesting.”

“A freak you mean,” he says bitterly, forgetting that he should not let too much emotion show.

“Unique and mysterious,” she corrects him, taking a step closer and circling his wrist to lower the finger that is still pointed at her accusingly.

“And you know it because you’ve seen me twice in your life,” he teases but Isabelle remains defiantly serious.

“Yes,” she breathes and he lacks words. Apparently, he cannot win this argument. The girl steps even closer.

“So, what about my book?”

“It’s already in your room,” Rumpelstiltskin replies and his frown does very little to keep her away. She is so close that if he takes a deeper breath, their chests will touch. He begins to panic; he arrived at her gardens, certain that he’d call the shots but it all spun out of his control and he thinks getting so involved was a mistake. One careless word from her and he’ll be destroyed even without her knowledge.

“What about the price?” she asks and he blinks, distracted by her voice from the worrying thoughts and the pleasant feel of warmth and her scent.

“What price?”

“The price for the deal,” she giggles. “There’s always a price, is there not?”

Great, now she’s deciding how he should make his deals. Hold on, _why_ did she even mention it? Isabelle looks up but does nothing else. She bites her bottom lip and Rumpelstiltskin hesitates. Is she provoking him? Up close he cannot pretend those half-hooded eyes hold innocence in them; there is definitely interest and a bit of desire she doesn’t quite understand yet and it would be so easy just to lower his head and kiss her while they pretend it to be a part of the deal. He wants to do it, but it’s wrong. She doesn’t remember him and he won’t use her like that, not even when the girl believes that is what she wishes for.

“Fine,” he grits his teeth as he steps aside, away from this seductress and points at the far corner of the garden. “I’ll have a rose from that bush as payment.”

“A rose?” she echoes, disappointed and her eyes are wide as she’s drained of her confidence. She studies him for a second and then she sighs. “Alright.”

Isabelle turns away with as much dignity as she can muster and plucks the rose, bringing him the flower. When she approaches him, the initial confusion is replaced by a look of mischief he knows all too well. She places the stem in his hand and before he does anything, stands on her toes to quickly press a kiss to his sharp scaled cheekbone.

“Thank you for the book,” she says and blushes again while Rumpelstiltskin is frozen in place utterly speechless.

Isabelle beams at him. Now there is no mistake; the little minx is positively flirting with him and isn’t quite subtle about it. So much for the highfaluting status of the lady of Avonlea their re-acquaintance began with.

“I’ll see you around?” she asks but both of them know there is no question. She doesn’t wait for him to reply and turns away, heading for the castle. She hums a cheery tune under her breath and Rumpelstiltskin thinks there is an added spring to her step.

He doesn’t know whether he should laugh or cry. The girl clearly doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into but he’s not sure if he even has the will or intent to stop her. After all, once she sets her mind to something, she will persist with all the stubbornness in the world. He wonders who he has to be grateful for for the second chance of her setting his mind on him.

Rumpelstiltskin enchants the rose and keeps it on the table in the grand room as a reminder of his foolish sentiments.

The problem is that whatever guides her – curiosity, taboo or the spirit of adventure – it is not love.


	4. An Excuse

Isabelle cannot stop thinking about the strange man. He scared her so the first time, almost knocking her off her feet as he flung his arms around her, crushing her in an embrace and muttering the girl’s name over and over. He was so sure she knew him, but there was no chance of it, of course.

Her fascination borders on obsession, for she spends hours remembering their short encounters. He’s nothing she expected, not the sinister powerful demon everyone thinks him to be. Oh, she can feel the power but there’re so many other layers to him. He was different both times she saw him, going from a nearly-weeping broken shell of a man to the dark dealmaker, from an enticer to spooked lover, from a suggestive prankster to an entrapped innocent when she kissed him first. She cannot figure him out, whether he speaks quietly or when his voice gets pitched and he gestures wildly. Isabelle doesn’t know what to expect of him next. She is intrigued and against all common sense, she is keen on seeing him again.

She knows that dealing with the Dark One is dangerous, yet both times she got more than she wished for. Well, almost. She was mortified when he asked for the kiss on the first meeting; she looked at his large eyes (she shivered when she saw them, initially mistaking the pupils for the vertical ones of a snake) to his putrefied teeth. She loathed the idea of marrying the Duke’s son but she possibly desired to kiss that creature even less; yet, imagining that she declined his offer only to suffer through a lifetime of sloppy smooches and attentions from Gaston made the choice easy. What was the worst he could do? It wasn’t like he’d suck her soul out.

So she shut her eyes when the Dark One stepped into her personal space, bracing herself for his foul breath and his groping hands but none of it came. He smelt of leather and smoke and slightly of dust, and it was a bit familiar and not entirely unpleasant, especially if she kept her eyes closed. He wasn’t forceful and when his lips brushed hers... Suddenly Isabelle found it was _her_ kissing _him_. She may be innocent, but the girl wasn’t foolish. She knew the butterflies in her stomach had nothing to do with her nerves, or even of fear. She felt the connection that she had never believed in before. She enjoyed the kiss and if she was honest with herself, if her father’s voice didn’t break them apart, she doesn’t know how much more she would let the imp do to her, how much further _she_ wanted to take things. The idea of him touching her was darkly exciting, making her dizzy. It was wrong and prohibited and the frenzy of thoughts and possible scenarios made a dull ache burn low in her stomach.

Not that Rumpelstiltskin was interested, of course. She spent days fantasizing about that kiss, sneaking into the quietness of the gardens, hoping he’d return to the place where they met. He hadn’t, but she still came, growing bolder in her daydreaming each time until he appeared out of nowhere, creeping up behind her. Isabelle’s skin prickled at the memory of his proximity and in a rush, her mind tried to draw up an excuse for calling him there. She kept blushing and dropping things, hoping he was not able to read her thoughts and on a deeper level, but longing he would. He was so gathered and confident and she was certain he’d ask for a kiss or perhaps double his price (a condition she was too eager to comply with). But Rumpelstiltskin asked for a flower, as if he couldn’t pick any flower he desired, as if the world’s supply of plants was scarce and the only place he could find them was in her garden and he needed to receive her permission for it.

Isabelle thought she misunderstood the whole thing, that she just imagined it all and that he was never interested, never attracted to her. She swore to herself that she’d try one more thing and if that trick didn’t work, she’d let it go and try to forget. So she kissed him, sliding her lips across his cheek when her courage failed her and she couldn’t just kiss him on the lips, and he froze and looked hopeful and astonished and at a loss for words. She got her confirmation and she cheered inside, leaving him alone, acknowledging that the last word was hers.

Whatever was happening between them, she liked it. And she had to see him again.

The book she traded for is old and holds only dry words. She knows he’s not a blood-thirsty imp, he cannot feast on babies when his eyes hold so much warmth when he looks at her, and she wants to know him, to truly see him, but the book provides no assistance in that.

The girl thinks that the main problem is that she requires nothing. She can always ask him for a dress or jewelry or shoes but she doesn’t want Rumpelstiltskin to think she’s silly. Clothes are nice and gems can be too but it’s not what she wants. Isabelle wishes she could just call him to talk, but she is unable to come up with a subject that could hold his attention.

When scarcely a week after their second deal, her horse, Phillipe, injures his leg, she feels guilty for experiencing almost-joy. She’s horrified when she realizes it, the poor animal is in pain but she’s restless, unable to concentrate on anything and counting seconds until nightfall. Because then she can call for Rumpelstiltskin. Of course, she could summon him – presuming he will answer her call – at any time, but she doesn’t want to be seen, not because she’s ashamed of how he looks or of how anyone can take her odd acquaintance, but she doesn’t want her father to know; he would lock her away to keep them apart, even more so if he ever knew the man kissed her. Oh please let him ask for a kiss this evening too.

Isabelle will never admit it but she spends a bit longer in front of her vanity mirror than she usually would; she instructs her maid to carefully braid her hair, using the long blue ribbon that matches the shade of her eyes and the dress. It’s not for Rumpelstiltskin, she tells herself, to attract his attention to her features; she simply needs to be presentable when meeting someone as powerful as he. She keeps telling herself this even when she mashes a blackberry and carefully paints her lips with the sticky juice. Yes, it’s all solely for the purpose of being presentable. She pinches her cheeks several times to bring colour to them – because she looks too pale and nervous even to herself and quickly tiptoes past her dozing maid and off to the gardens.

She is prepared this time as she feels the air shift behind her and grow a bit colder. The girl turns just in time to see the purple smoke dissolve around him. Rumpelstiltskin is not wearing his dark red coat; this time he is clothed in a tight-fitting brown jacket which nevertheless holds a pattern of squares that still eerily remind her of scales. It hugs his body like a second skin but he does not seem restricted as he moves his hands in a flourish gesture and gives her a bow.

“Good evening,” she says and there is less awkwardness between them and she cannot hold a genuine smile as she is glad to see him.

“I’ve always thought I could recognize a desperate soul but I have never anticipated that you, my dear, would require an ongoing need for my services.” Rumpelstiltskin speaks coolly and his voice is flat, but she can tell by the glint of mirth in his eyes that he doesn’t mean it; he may not be happy to be here but he is not unhappy either. After all, he could simply choose to ignore her, yet he is still in her gardens. “How may I be of assistance _this_ time?” His normally pitched voice drops lower at the word this and Isabelle wonders if she is busted.

“Come, I’ll show you,” she replies and reaches out for his hand. His body goes rigid and he blinks several times, staring down at her fingers in his palm, but then she tugs him forward gently and he follows her obediently and without another word.

They walk into the stables and Rumpelstiltskin wrinkles his nose up at the smell but does not otherwise object.

“Do you mistake me for a vet?” he asks resentfully when she explains what she wants him to do.

“No,” she says, upset that he takes everything the wrong way.

“And you realize that the horse’s leg would heal perfectly fine by itself?”

“He’s suffering,” she protests, “when there is no need for it.”

Rumpelstiltskin makes a show of rolling his eyes and she bites her lip in frustration.

“So can you do it?”

“Of course I can do it, dearie, do you doubt my powers?” he purses his lips as if a mere idea of the girl questioning his magic is insulting.

“No, I’m not! But will you do it?”

He studies her and then flicks his wrist.

“There. Happy now?” Isabelle bends down to inspect the wound only to find it’s no longer there. She knew that magic could do much, but still seeing it cast is marvelous. “Can we leave now? Unless you ask me to clean the stables as well,” he grumbles and she laughs. Not because she finds his words funny but rather at the way he casually says _we_. It makes her ridiculously warm inside and she knows her cheeks will soon begin to hurt from smiling.

Isabelle is so occupied by her thoughts that she nearly bumps into him when he stops abruptly a few steps outside.

“I’ll take your ribbon,” he informs her and for a moment she cannot understand what he is talking about.

“My ribbon?” she repeats and Rumpelstiltskin turns around.

“Precisely. As my payment,” he adds and makes a strange trilling giggle that makes her involuntarily snicker too.

She has absolutely no clue as to why he needs her ribbon. Her behavior has been nothing but reckless, escalating from cautiousness and signing contracts to asking him to do random things without even bothering about the price. Isabelle _knows_ what kind of price she hopes for but what he demands leaves her a bit disappointed. Yet her fingers fly to the end of her plait and after a few tugs she undoes the knot of the bow and slowly begins unbraiding her hair.

She looks up at Rumpelstiltskin and her breath is caught in her throat. His eyes are fixed on her, and his gaze is so intent that she shivers. She feels her face getting warmer and although they are not touching, the moment feels strangely sensual, almost intimate and she squeezes the strands of hair harder to calm the tremor in her fingers. Isabelle manages to undo her braid and holds out the blue satin ribbon for him.

Rumpelstiltskin plucks it from her palm and runs the smooth piece between his fingers, making the material cover and slide over his glittering skin.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs so quietly she’d not have caught it if she hadn’t stepped closer to him at that moment. She is grateful for the little light outside as her face must be beet-red by now; she doesn’t know if he was talking about the ribbon or her hair but secretly hopes he complimented her.

Isabelle approaches him as close as she dares to – and she feels quite audacious tonight – and looks up at the man. She cannot explain why she is doing it, but she feels intoxicated by challenging him, by pushing him further each time, by catching him off guard even though it must be unacceptable and wrong on so many levels.

“Is it all you wanted?” she asks and she knows he understands exactly what she implies. The man doesn’t take the bait and she shakes his hand a little sadly instead.

“What was it all about? Back there in the stables?” he ignores her question, posing one of his own.

“About healing my horse,” she replies defensively with a lot more force than needed and both of them know it’s not completely true.

“And remedying the wretched animal was so urgent because….?”

“Because I wanted to go horse-riding,” she shoots back at him and Rumpelstiltskin snorts.

“How about the rest of your father’s horses?”

“Phillipe is my favourite. Have you heard of loyalty?” Isabelle knows she’s taking too many liberties but he makes her feel silly and she dreads his reaction if he were to find out her actual motives.

“And have you heard of honesty?” he raises his eyebrows as he puts on a face of exaggerated concern.

Isabelle sighs and tries to bend her head to avoid his stare but his fingers catch her under her chin and she has no choice but to meet his solemn eyes.

“The question still stands,” Rumpelstiltskin says and his breath fans her face as he enunciates words slowly and clearly. His voice is silky-smooth and shockingly rich, caressing her ears and she fights the whim to close her eyes and bury her face in his palm. “What is this about?”

He expects an answer and she thinks it would be fair to give him one.

“About having a friend,” she offers softly and his hand drops from her face as he flicks his wrist in irritation.

“Why does everyone just assume that…,” he snaps, taking a few steps back (and why does it feel like he’s trying to run?), “…that I need a _friend_?” Rumpelstiltskin spits the last word out like it’s venom and she flinches at the contempt in his voice.

“No!” she hurriedly steps to him, “I was talking about myself.”

“What?” he seems so surprised he doesn’t register that fact she practically presses herself against him.

“ _I_ need a friend,” she explains and he looks even more bewildered.

“You couldn’t find anybody else for this role?”

“I do not want to find anyone else.”

“I am not apt for it,” he protests.

“Why?” she asks simply and he blinks at her.

“What do you mean, _why_? Isabelle…”

“Belle,” she corrects him and he closes his eyes as if the name causes him pain. But isn’t it what he thought it was, isn’t it what he wants it to be? Rumpelstiltskin sucks in air through his clenched teeth and she can see a muscle twitch in his cheek.

Without thinking, she reaches up and cups the side of his face. He doesn’t open his eyes and his curly hair feels exceptionally soft on the back of her hand. She wants to run her fingers through it but she hasn’t gathered up her courage for it yet.

“You do not understand,” he says meekly but she has already decided.

His skin is warm and rough under her touch, like a stone that has spent a day in the sun. She gently strokes her thumb across his face and his eyes fly open. The girl holds his gaze as she slowly rises to the tips of her toes and nudges her face inch by inch closer to his.

Rumpelstiltskin tries to pull away but she’s determined; she stops a breath away and just holds there, her lips not touching his skin.

“You do not know what you’re doing,” the man tries to reason with her, still tense and unyielding. In her sound mind she would laugh at it – she, born and raised as a lady, is trying to earn a kiss from the Dark One who resists and tries to advise her against it; but Belle is not in her right mind.

“I do,” she reassures him, raising her other hand and placing it on his chest. The rough leather scratches against her skin but she pays it no mind. “Please,” she begs, not caring that the plea makes her sound desperate.

The word breaks him and she doesn’t know who moves forward first, but their lips meet and the butterflies in her stomach flutter madly as the rest of her body melts against him. Ironically, she does think it must be magic and then there are no more thoughts, only the pressure of his lips and the sheer joy when his arms wrap around her waist and Rumpelstiltskin holds her closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, summoning the Dark One for a make-out session _totally_ makes sense in my head. Speaking of which, I think I'll go give it a try


	5. The Storm

It feels like a small victory. Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t visit her as often as she’d like, but he does come at least once a week. The man remains strangely reserved though. They usually just talk and he asks more questions than he answers. If Isabelle can get him to relax and loosen up a bit, she may steal a kiss or two before he leaves. When she works up the nerve and sees that his guard is lowered, the girl tries taking small liberties like leaning against him a little or even sliding her fingers through his hair, but Rumpelstiltskin always pulls away before she can do much.

Isabelle would think she’s forcing herself on him if not the feverish hunger of his reciprocal kisses. Perhaps, she thinks, she is too ordinary to truly interest him. Or maybe the man is not used to letting people close or, in fact, to having anyone in his life. Both are equally possible but she hopes she can change things if she just allows him enough time and personal space.

But if she can be patient with scarce meetings (at least he does come, and looking forward to this is a sweet feeling), keeping herself away from touching him is beyond her control. Frankly, Isabelle has never paid much mind to how important the physical contact was until she saw how much he enjoys it. It affects him strongly but he still doesn’t allow it to last too long as if he were punishing himself or protecting himself from something. From her.  From getting attached. She believes that is why Rumpelstiltskin is wearing his cloak again, although there is absolutely no need for the thing. The evening air hangs humid and sticky; Isabelle can hear the distant peals of thunder and hopes it is not going to rain; she doesn’t want their appointment to be cut short.

Rumpelstiltskin arrives with the usual plume of smoke and she smiles fondly at him even though he takes the furthest end of the bench after greeting her. But it’s familiar, it’s almost comforting and she is not discouraged by his pretence of being indifferent or unfeeling. It’s been a lengthy day and unfairly long since she saw him last (yes, five days can seem like forever) and the girl carefully edges closer to him. Isabelle pretends she doesn’t notice him doing the same (he nearly falls off the bench, perched on its end with an impressive sense of balance) and tries to distract him by asking how the sorcerer’s day was. He never gives her a straight answer but at least by the time he finishes making a quip and giving her a half-truth she has scooted over and places hear head on his left shoulder. She hopes he will rest his arm around her but the man ignores her insolence.

“You are too bony,” she complains and it is true; Isabelle can feel his sharp shoulder dig into her cheek uncomfortably even through the layers of his clothing.

“Well, uh… you know, I’ve been short on consuming the newborns this month,” he jests, waving his hand through the air.

“Mhmm,” she agrees and smiles despite her intention. She imagines he probably forgets to eat more often than not; mundane things like dining could easily escape his attention. He does have a strange sense of humour and it took her some time to appreciate that kind of wit. Isabelle sighs as his high collar prevents her from being as close as she’d like and slides her arms around him, feeling the rough textured dragon-hide under her fingers.

“Would you at least take your coat off? Surely, it’s too warm for it,” she prompts tentatively but she’s interrupted by a theatrical gasp as Rumpelstiltskin’s hand flies to his chest in an over-exaggerated portrayal of wounded dignity.

“So that you could take advantage of my innocence when I undress? I think not!” his voice comes out pitched and shocked and it would be funny if it didn’t hit so close to the truth. Well, not that she intended to take advantage of him in the gardens but the girl simply wishes he would let her in; he’s too collected, too distant in the armour of his leathers and his sleek words.

She just closes her eyes and concentrates on the warmth that radiates from him, breathing in deeply the scents of the heavy earth, mixed with the perfume of flowers and grass, and Rumpelstiltskin’s skin. She doesn’t want to think and let her doubts take over; she needs to cherish the moment, here and now and not let the worries of tomorrow interfere.

“Isabelle, what’s wrong?” his voice is quiet and sombre; he reads her moods well and her being drumpy did not pass unnoticed. The man doesn’t call her Belle though. She insisted but he sticks to the full name and somehow it unsettles her. Like he’s denying their closeness, trying to be formal and detached. “Did I upset you?”

The girl shakes her head and although he can see her just with the corner of his eye, he can feel the movement against his body.

“Then what is it on your mind? Tell me.” The words are soft but at the same time they are more of a gentle command than a polite request. She doesn’t want to talk about it but she knows Rumpelstiltskin won’t let go of the subject easily.

“It’s my father,” Isabelle explains and grows quiet again. The man doesn’t speak, waiting for her to continue. “He wants… We’ve had a heated talk today. Papa has arranged another marriage for me.”

“Oh.” She can see Rumpelstiltskin’s hand curl into a fist against his hip but his voice remains calm. “And you…”

“And I told him that I wouldn’t. Not that it mattered much,” she cannot help the bitterness from seeping into her words and the sorcerer relaxes a bit, realizing that he’s just as much appalled by the prospect.

“Who is this new suitor?”

“I don’t know. Some wealthy lord or princeling, for all I care,” she says angrily, shifting away so that she can look him in the eye. “I do not want to marry, not him!”

Rumpelstiltskin appears to be amused by the last part for the corner of his mouth curls upward but he doesn’t tease her about what she has almost confessed. His eyes become darker as he bends closer to her face, dropping to a confiding whisper.

“Do you want me to turn the fellow into a snail?”

“No,” Isabelle snickers at the way he waggles his eyebrows suggestively. She knows that he could actually do it but the thought holds no fear.

“A rat then?” Rumpelstiltskin is pleased that he made her laugh and his fingers dance in the air, amusing her further. The girl shakes her head again, her wide smile lightening up her spirits as she forgets for a second that they are talking about serious things; it’s her future that is at stake. “A toad, perhaps?” he adds a bit too hopefully. “No one likes toads.” But Isabelle is still unyielding.

“I do not think it’s wise,” she suggests and Rumpelstiltskin gives her a mock pout as if she robbed him of some fun. “If you keep it up, the kingdom will run out of eligible bachelors.” The man mutters something suspiciously similar to it would serve the damn fools right.

“What was that?” she asks.

“I said, 'what do you have in mind?'”

Isabelle fidgets.

“I might have come up with a way to get out of it. But I need help.”

“Care to enlighten me, dearie?” Rumpelstiltskin asks airily but she can feel that he is quite concerned. “Or your clever little plan doesn’t involve me?”

Isabelle hopes she’s not blushing again because her plan certainly holds a major part for the man but she has no idea how to spill it to him. She shocked herself with the prospect and she knows he might not like it. But the more she thought of it, the more convinced she became.

“I’ve weighed everything and I decided I want my life to change. This,” she gestures around, “does not feel right. Sometimes I feel like I do not belong here.” Isabelle pauses as if she expects him to laugh at this but he nods, his large eyes attentive and sympathetic and she goes on. “I… I want a change. To be able to decide for myself. I know it may look like I’m trying to avoid responsibilities but I’m not. So many people could rule better than me, people with experience, people who deserve it. That is, if I even get to rule and not be a decoration at my husband’s side whose only concern is to produce heirs and aim to please his whims.” She’s speaking faster now, her voice laced with emotion and she’s out of breath, flushed and passionate, glancing at Rumpelstiltskin with a challenge but he doesn’t object nor argue with her.

“You want me to use magic to convince your father that…?” He frowns, uncertain of what the girl’s leading to.

“You think I haven’t tried it? Reasoning, pleading, begging him?” Her frustration is almost palpable and Rumpelstiltskin feels dull pain in his chest, making it hard for him to breathe. Perhaps, her returning home was not a mercy on Regina’s part. She’s clearly unhappy and the relationship with her parent deteriorates quickly even without the sorcerer’s interference. He wonders why he hasn’t seen it before; was he obsessing over his own emotions not to notice anything beyond that? He should have been there for her, to support her, to protect her, to guide her. Instead, he gave up, nurturing his own pain and it feels like betrayal. Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t know what to do; he desperately wants to fix things but he’s always been the man of wrong choices.

“So I’ve come up with the only solution I see possible,” her voice trembles lightly and she takes a deep breath to calm herself before continuing. “My father will not stop playing match-maker unless…” Isabelle licks her lips nervously. “Unless no one would want to marry me, even despite the promise of riches and expansion of their lands.”

“But dearie,” the man objects with a nervous giggle, “there always will be someone willing. You’re young and beautiful and…”

“What if I am no longer innocent?” she interrupts and he gapes at her.

“What are you saying?”

“That if I were to lose my maidenhood and it was known, nobody would desire me and I would be left alone.”

“B-but,” Rumpelstiltskin stutters and he cannot think of a single thing to say. He cannot tell her she is not as innocent as she thinks but that’s the last thing that worries him. He hasn’t realized how much of a burden her life here was. “You do not mean it. Can you even imagine what consequences there would be if anyone found out? You’d be lucky if you were locked up for the rest of your days! You would be shunned from everywhere, despised and hated. Your life would turn into hell if you ever let anyone believe you were dishonoured like that.”

“Not having everyone believe,” she presses stubbornly and places her hand on his thigh. The gesture is chaste instead of an attempt at seduction but it almost burns him when Rumpelstiltskin comprehends his role in this. “But actually do it. I need someone I can trust and…”

He jumps up, shaking her hand off him and steps several steps back.

“Are you out of your mind?” he shouts because it’s unthinkable, it is the most bizarre request imaginable and it hurts. It hurts knowing she wants to use him in that way, to have her treat her body so… cynically. The wind gathers and he shivers both with cold and indignation.

“It makes perfect sense! If you just…”

“No!” he throws his arms in front of himself when the girl stands up and approaches.

“It will work and I know my father will not harm me,” her fingers circle his wrists as she lowers his arms.

“I will not do it,” it comes out as a snarl through his gritted teeth but she looks up at him, unafraid and he can feel the anger diminish and his voice drops to a whisper “I can’t. I shall not. And I will not allow you to destroy your life like this. You do not understand what you are asking for.” He has ruined her life before, but this is her second chance (whether she knows it or not) and she doesn’t need to imbue herself by associating with the Dark One, not this time. They kept it light, few talks and few kisses, but what she asks of him now means taking things much too far.

“I do,” the girl presses, raising her chin up defiantly. “Do you not desire me?”

He groans because it’s totally beyond his point.

“It’s irrelevant. You do not mean…”

“Yes, I am certain. I am tired of having people decide for me. This is my life and my choice and this is final.”

“Isabelle, please…” the first drops on rain land on the ground and he feels completely miserable.

“Why do you never call me by my name?” she narrows her eyes, gripping onto this detail and he’s lost for a moment. “It’s Belle, why do you never use it?” He remains quiet and she grows impatient.

“Say it,” she demands. “Say my name.”

Heavy drops land on her face and Rumpelstiltskin closes his eyes. He knows it’s just a name but it stirs too much pain. It’s easier to think of her as Isabelle, to separate them as different persons in his head. She wants him but it’s not the same, she offers herself for an entirely different reason and he dreads his Belle is gone forever. Letting himself get close to her was a mistake.

“Please,” he repeats, not sure what he is begging for. It’s raining heavily and he doesn’t know if the moisture on his face has to do with the water pouring from the skies or his weeping soul.

“Oh gods, there is someone else there? Someone else named Belle?” her eyes go wide and she steps away, her mind buzzing with speculations. “That’s why you behave that way, because I remind you of her but we’re not the same. How could I be so stupid?”

Rumpelstiltskin presses his hands to his face; he’s confused and the whole evening has taken an unexpected turn, it’s too messed up. His shoulders move with soundless laughter and when he puts his hands away he catches Isabelle – or Belle, he doesn’t know – on the verge of running. The wet sleeves of her dress stick to her skin and she is probably cold. If only he could take her in his arms and keep her warm; if only she could remember him.

“Wait,” he calls after her and she freezes in place. “I… It’s complicated.” Rumpelstiltskin carefully steps up not to spook her. He’s certain she noticed him avoiding using any names but she waits for him to finish. “I may tell you the story one day, but for now… I swear there is no one in my life.” Not anymore, he thinks, _and not in a way you suspect._

The girls gives him a jerky nod and his hand cup her chin, making her raise her head.

“I want you to promise me something,” he says and watches her face intently. “Tell me you will not do anything silly. Promise that if you ever decide to give your body to anyone, it will be because he’s worthy of it and not due to necessity. Let me take care of everything else.”

Her bottom lip trembles and he thinks she is going to cry. She doesn’t.

“I want to hear you say it. I need your word that a choice like that will not be rushed. For your own sake.”

“I’m sorry,” she says and her shoulders droop in surrender. “I shouldn’t have… but I don’t know what else to do! I want to be in control of things but in truth I’m lost. You’re right. I promise. I won’t bring this up again.”

Rumpelstiltskin exhales as relief washes over him.

“Hold me?” she asks meekly and he finds no power to deny her.

“Come, you’re cold.”

He embraces her and transports them both to her chambers, drying them up and carefully lowering the girl onto the bed. She grips the lapels of his coat when he tries to pull away.

“Stay? I won’t… I don’t want to be alone,” she pleads.

The bed is too narrow for both of them and he makes sure the girl is covered tightly before lowering himself on it. Rumpelstiltskin slides an arm under her neck and she clings to him, still afraid he’ll leave. She’s so fragile, so open and trusting in the arms of a monster.

“It will be alright,” he says soothingly. “I will figure out what to do with your father. Don’t worry about anything, just go to sleep.”

He lets his right hand stroke her soft hair and her body relaxes as she eventually slips into the land of dreams.

And if he stays longer than necessary after her breathing becomes even and peaceful, he will never tell.


	6. Wishes Granted

He tries to be patient, he really does. His plan to get Belle her independency – because he doesn’t want to think of it as freeing her from her own father – takes time to work out properly. He could simply steal her, but he wants to do things right; she doesn’t deserve to be locked up with him again; she should make her own choices and follow her desires. But more often Rumpelstiltskin feels like he wants to send everything to hell and take the easy path.

He could just give the girl her memories back, but he’s afraid. He fears what he will see in her eyes, when her perception of him is no longer clouded by her feelings. He’s scared of seeing the pain, as there will inevitably be the hurt from recalling the moment Regina plunged her hand into her chest and tore her heart out. He thinks of the unspoken blame, for she sacrificed everything for him and he didn’t even look for her. And most of all, he dreads the change. Rumpelstiltskin knows that she can feel, but it won’t be the same; just like after seeing the world in vivid colours she would be forced into grey existence and after tasting the richness of food left only with ashes in her mouth. He wants to believe that his love would be enough for both of them, but he can only too well imagine the hollowness in his chest after seeing her every day, knowing that it’s not quite right, that her feelings are held back. And he is not a strong man.

His dreams have changed. The visions of Belle dead, her lifeless eyes staring off blindly into space that haunted him, are now gone. Even the short moments of restless oblivion filled with fantasies of finding her alive,  that brought hot tears to his eyes, making him wish he either never slept again or never had to wake up are replaced with others, of an entirely different nature. Whenever he closes his eyes for the briefest of moments, he daydreams as if the image of his love has been burnt onto the back of his eyelids. She smiles at him and holds him close, cradling him between her slender thighs, grinding against him and arching her back lustfully, chanting his name over and over when he plunges into her; gasping for air when he buries his face in her sex, tasting her hungrily, drinking her in and feeling her come undone under his tongue, around his fingers and his cock over and over again.

Those dreams leave him hot and aching, and he wraps his hand around his prick, sliding his fist over the tight flesh in quick angry strokes until he grunts with release that brings little satisfaction. The memory of these moments of weakness, when he cannot resist taking himself in hand, makes him burn with shame when he sees the girl because how can she not see the guilt, plainly written all over his face Isabelle doesn’t make it any easier on him. Her kisses burn him, and he craves more, always more, of those soft pliable lips and small sighs of pleasure she makes when he cradles the back of her head and his thumb draws circles on the skin of her neck. Distancing himself gets only harder with time and he’s not sure he wants to keep fighting the feeling anymore.

She won’t love him, but perhaps he can live with it. What if this is a chance for a fresh start? Isabelle is drawn to him, whether it’s natural curiosity or their destinies are intertwined. She offered herself to him and it would have been so easy to succumb to her. The man’s self-control nearly crumbled at the realization that he could indeed satisfy the carnal hunger for her. If he wanted only her body, he would do it. Instead Rumpelstiltskin cannot help feeling hurt, feeling disgusted with himself at even considering taking her. He almost feels used. He knows that Isabelle might enjoy his touch, but she asked him only because the act was her way out of her father’s tyranny. Having once experienced the closeness of mind, body and soul and losing himself in his loved one entirely only to become more complete and alive, he doesn’t want anything else.

So he bids himself to be patient and plots carefully, sitting at his spinning wheel or pacing around his turret, restless and full of zealous energy.  Rumpelstiltskin knows high-born parents do not trade for their children but he also realizes Isabelle’s father is not as good and devoted to his only daughter as he wants others to believe. A flood to destroy the crops, murrain of cattle, stories of terrible plague in the neighbourhood shire, a small mutiny on the border that ceases most of the trade make Sir Maurice worried about the future. The rumours of ogres approaching make him desperate enough for a deal with the Dark One.

It takes less time than Rumpelstiltskin anticipated but he’s not about to complain. When the day comes, he bursts into the council room, a grin spreading onto his face at the tension written on everyone’s faces. He’s a bit annoyed that Maurice doesn’t bother to get up and greet his guest – the man is sitting at the head of the massive oak table, leaning heavily onto one side, seeking support of a large throne-like chair. He looks weary but not weak and Rumpelstiltskin wonders if he hasn’t rushed things; another incentive may be needed before he would give up his only child. He almost feels bad for the man, who had her love but not the ability to keep it. He doesn’t want to think Sir Maurice and him are not entirely unalike.

“Why have you called for me?” Rumpelstiltskin asks in a sweet childish voice and he can swear he sees him shiver as his high trilling giggle pierces Maurice’s ears.

“I want to negotiate with you, demon,” Isabelle’s father spits out scornfully and the sorcerer holds back a scowl, forcing the intimidating grin plastered onto his face to spread further.

“Ah, the ancient names, they sound like music to my ears,” he remarks, catching one of the guards creeping up on him from behind out of the corner of his eye. Are they really so foolish to believe they can capture him?

“I warn you that if this thing touches my clothes, I will impale you on your own spear and perch you on the wall of my castle for the crows to feast upon your eyes,” Rumpelstiltskin says lightly without turning his head and snickers smugly as the man stops dead in his tracks. He turns his large otherworldly eyes to Maurice and notices the sweat breaking over his shaggy brows. “Don’t try playing games with me, old man, ” he chides, wiggling a finger and clicking his tongue. “What is it you want?”

“Prosperity of my land,” Maurice says and gulps heavily.

“And what do I get in return?” It’s a bait and similarly to the hundreds of deals concluded even before the man’s time, he takes it in a heartbeat.

“Anything.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s heard it before. They all say _anything_ , hoping it means something insignificant. Their anything is limited to small tangible things and they are often shocked when he goes for something precious, even if it’s only valuable for them. He claps his hands together and slides his joined fingers under his jaw. Rumpelstiltskin knows exactly what he wants, what he’s going to bargain for but he likes the heavy silence and the expecting glares. So he walks around the table unhurriedly, the clicks of his heels on the stone floor being the only sounds in the room as everyone seems to hold their breaths. He circles the man’s chair while he pretends to think.

“Anything, you say,” he drawls pensively and Maurice shifts in his seat anxiously. “Well, I know what I shall have,” he says and bends in the waist slightly, dropping his voice to a confiding whisper. “Your daughter.”

“No!” Maurice protests but Rumpelstiltskin notices something; it’s a delay for a fraction of a second but it’s enough to catch the hesitation. The man’s eyes are searching, jumping from the imp in front of him to the faces of his subjects in the room. He clearly wishes they would have chosen to talk in private but it’s too late to remedy this now.

Rumpelstiltskin narrows his eyes but he knows he’s won.

“It seems that I have wasted my time then,” he shrugs and half-turns towards the door, keeping his eyes glued to the man’s large reddening face. “No matter. I will still have her when your reign is over, your people have starved to death and your domain has burnt in the fires of the ogre wars. I just wanted to do things right and get her dear papa’s blessing first.” He bares his stained teeth in a snarl and waves his hand in a departing gesture.

“W-wait.” Ah, there it is, the point of no return. “What… what are you going to do with her?”

Rumpelstiltskin approaches and stares at the man hard. Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps Maurice will back out but despite any logic he presses further.

“I might have her chained in my dungeon or in my bed. But that’s the risk you take with any suitor. I merely happen to offer a higher price.”

Maurice clenches his jaws hard and the sorcerer studies the throbbing vein in his temple with mild disgust. The fact that the man is even considering his offer is outraging by itself. How could he have fathered someone as perfect and kind as Isabelle only to ship her off to the monster? Does he value the power over anything else?

“You can have my daughter in exchange for the prosperity of my lands… and wealth,” he finally consents and instead of glee Rumpelstiltskin wants to hit the man.

“Now it’s wealth? When you sell your child, you’d better make sure you get the best bid, eh?” He clenches his fists and reminds himself that he _wanted_ it, he’s buying the girl’s independency and ability to choose for herself and not her.

“Sign on the dotted line,” he barks and snatches the parchment back as soon as Maurice’s shaky hand finishes drawing his name on it. He feels the tingle of magic and knows that now it’s done. “The deal is struck. And oh, don’t even think of ever seeing her again. I’d also advise you against trying to come after us.” Rumpelstiltskin lets his eyes slide across every face in the room and his mouth twists in a smirk when he sees everyone divert their glare. “Congratulations, kind lords. Hope you shall find the outcome to your liking.”

He tries to control his anger and exhales noisily upon appearing in Isabelle’s chambers. Her maid is startled and she begins to scream but he flicks his hand, muting her.

“Out with you, you silly cow,” Rumpelstiltskin snaps and idly wonders how much time it’d take for her eyes to pop out of the woman’s forehead – truly, he cannot be _this_ frightening.

“It’s okay, Martha,” Isabelle’s voice is gentle and soothing and she pats the maid’s hand before carefully nudging her towards the door. “I know the man, he will bring me no harm.”

Martha trips over the threshold but he swings the door shut without caring a bit whether the hag fell down or not. Isabelle turns to him with a frown.

“That was uncalled for! You scared her. Would it hurt you to be nicer?” she says reproachfully and it somehow calms him although he doesn’t feel any pang of guilt.

“Collect your belongings. I have… arranged things.”

Her enormous blue eyes widen as she steps closer, hopeful but not quite believing it.

“Really?” she breathes and there is a smile beginning to bloom on her lips. “My father…”

_Has sold you_ , a bitter thought dances on the tip of his tongue but he swallows it back.

“…has let you go, dear,” he offers uneasily and then he hears her squeal and his vision is obscured by a mass of scented brown hair as Isabelle throws her arms around his neck and holds on for dear life.

It was worth it, after all, he thinks, shutting his eyes and giving himself a moment to enjoy her closeness before slowly prying the girl off him. It’s so tempting to just take her to the Dark Castle but Rumpelstiltskin can come up with a dozen reasons against it and only a few in favour of the idea.

“What do you want to do next?” he asks when they separate and Isabelle looks a little lost, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I… I don’t know,” she confesses. “I guess I will just… See the world.”

He exits the room while she changes but he doesn’t trust to leave her alone until he makes sure she’s safely away from her father’s home. When Isabelle opens the door she’s wearing something painstakingly similar to the outfit Rumpelstiltskin first saw her in – practical worn leathers for horse-riding and simple white blouse. Her hair is pinned up and she has a sack over her shoulder which he eyes doubtfully.

“Is that all you’re taking?”

“Well, yes,” Isabelle shrugs, “I do not need much. There will hardly be any use for jewels or dancing gowns on the road.”

He smiles and they follow along the corridors to the outside. Whether it’s a coincidence or Maurice’s order, the strange pair doesn’t encounter anyone trying to stop them or reason with the girl. He watches her climb on horseback and there’s a pulling pain in his chest. It’s so hard to let her go but before he can open his mouth to say anything, she reaches down to brush her fingers across his cheek.

“I never even thanked you,” she observes and it takes all of his power not to lean into the touch. She catches his eyes, her own serious and slightly moist. “Thank you, Rumpelstiltskin,” she says and it seems it’s all she dares to say, keeping the rest unspoken.

“You can always count on me. Milady,” he adds teasingly and she smiles.

Rumpelstiltskin turns her hand palm up and places a dry kiss in the centre.

“It’s… not a farewell, is it?” Isabelle asks in a small voice and he feels he may just burst with all the emotion. He doesn’t trust himself to speak and just shakes his head. He doesn’t know what the future holds for them but she takes it as affirmation. Her smile turns into a hopeful and slightly playful one.

“See you soon then.”

Isabelle spurs Philippe and the man watches her until her body is nothing more than a quickly receding small shape in the horizon. It is difficult but it also feels good. It’s only fair she gets the adventure she desires. 

Whether she needs him or not, he will be there to watch over her.


	7. Birthday Girl

Rumpelstiltskin stares at the small note in front of him. Over the past few hours he has read it so many times that the previously rolled piece of parchment is now completely flat and slightly worn at the edges, but the words still refuse to sink into his mind. The writing is neat, making him guess that the sender took time to meticulously calligraph the letters to give voice to the carefully chosen thoughts.

_I miss our encounters_ , she writes. Rumpelstiltskin knows she’s well and in no need for anything – not after he slipped a heavy pouch of gold into her sack without her noticing. His hands itch for the mirror to verify that nothing has happened to the girl since he last watched her last night, but he tries to lessen the interference into her life; otherwise he’d do little else but hungrily watch her every move via the magic mirror and in truth, he’d be quite content to spend an eternity like that.

_Could it be that you miss them too?_ Like there ever was a question. There are no more excuses for them to meet, no logical grounds or binding contracts and Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t even consider tricking her for a deal. He half-expected to never hear from the girl again. He knew Isabelle wasn’t using him, but the irrational fear lingered at the back of his mind. Those several days without her have been hard; even more so when he realized he may never see her in person again.

_I’m staying at the “Whispering Goldsmith”_. There is nothing else on the parchment, he flipped it over to find only an elegant flowing _B_ instead of signature. B for beaming, brilliant, baffling, brave, bookish and beautiful. B for Belle.

The invitation is innocent enough but it made him shake with excitement and… hesitance. At first Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t understand why she chose to send a note and then it dawns on him.  Perhaps, he’s not the only one who nurtures doubts. Isabelle gives him a chance to ignore it, to pretend the note was lost or simply undelivered. Instead of using magic to summon him, she gives him a choice. Despite the first instinct to rush to her, the man paces around his spinning wheel, curling and straightening the parchment and rereading the three short lines. The choice is easy but consequences may be hard.

The day turns to twilight by the time he builds up the courage to do it.

He finds the girl in the stables, brushing her horse’s mane and humming off-tune and clears his throat hoping he won’t startle her too badly. Isabelle spins on her heels and the smile she gives him seems to illuminate space and chase all of his silly fears into the furthest shadowy corners. Fighting his own grin is an impossible task and he hides it helplessly under the curtain of his wavy hair when he bends down, his arms swooshing in a practiced graceful bow.

“Rumpelstiltskin!” she exclaims, bubbly with excitement and laughter and he thinks she is going to throw herself at him. The man feels a pang of regret when she doesn’t. Isabelle carefully puts away the brush and wipes her hands on her breeches, coming closer and dropping him a quick curtsey.

She looks well indeed or, perhaps, her eyes, radiating genuine pleasure of seeing him, make it hard to read anything else on her face.

“How have you been?” Rumpelstiltskin asks when he begins to fidget under her intense stare.

“I’m well, thank you,” she shrugs and it’s mostly true. It took her less than two days to discover that travelling is not as much of an exciting adventure she hoped it to be. Horse-riding gives you blisters and leather wear sticks to the sweaty skin, making it only worse. It’s no fun to sleep in the open and sometimes even less in a tavern populated by bed bugs. Food is simple compared to what she was used to and mostly… dry and she wouldn’t mention to a living soul about the troubles of answering the nature’s calls in the woods yet she feels happy. Isabelle discoveres that people are nice and smile back at you if you give them a smile; most farmers do not mind sharing a meal or proving a roof over your head for little help or an amusing tale.

“It’s my name day today,” she says almost apologetically as if she needs a good reason to have the sorcerer around.

Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes go wide and he curses himself for so little insight.

“Such a grand occasion calls for a gift, dearie,” he proclaims and swishes his right hand in the air. When he offers his hand to her, she sees a beautifully crafted gold ring with a large sapphire in the middle.

“You really shouldn’t have…” she blushes as she watches the gem reflect the light softly. She never liked the jewelry quite as much as other women seemed to, but the idea that this ring was made especially for her and receiving it from Rumpelstiltskin makes her stomach flutter with pleasure.

“It’s nothing, I just found it laying around the Castle,” the man replies and it’s true. He did find it on the stone floor but he doesn’t want to say anything about the circumstance or the preceding events that made Belle lose it. He thinks that it’s a poor substitute for a gift, as it was hers before and it’s only fair if she has it now; he should have known about his love’s birthday and prepared something better. “Will you allow me to...”

The girl shakes her head and his heart drops.

“It’s beautiful, really, but I can’t,” she says regretfully and Rumpelstiltskin frowns. “I shouldn’t wear it, it looks too expensive and I’m afraid someone will attempt to steal it.”

“Ah! Is this better?” the man waves his left hand over it and the ring is replaced by a pendant on the delicate chain. The stone remains the same though and he spins his index finger indicating she should turn around.

Isabelle exhales noisily as the slightly cool chain slides across her skin. It’s quite long and she admires the stone, turning the sapphire in her fingers before tucking it underneath her shirt, shivering as the gem scrapes against her chest but it warms up quickly. Rumpelstiltskin’s hands rest on her forearms and she is in no hurry to face him again, enjoying the hot breath that tickles her neck just under her hairline.

“Thank you,” she repeats quietly and he jerks his hands away. Isabelle tries to hold back a sigh of disappointment as she turns around. Discreet as he may be, she still catches his eyes drop quickly to her chest before snapping back to her face.

“I thought I’d be granted three wishes,” she jokes to break the moment of awkward silence. To her amusement, Rumpelstiltskin wrinkles up his nose and gives her a scowl.

“Do you mistake me for a bloody fairy?” he asks sourly and Isabelle giggles at his exaggeratingly insulted tone.

“Maybe just a little,” she teases and she would mistake his frown for a real one if not for the mirth sparkling in his eyes.

“Three wishes it is then, mistress mine. Choose wisely,” he drawls haughtily and she laughs again.

“Have a drink with me,” she commands and he blinks at her in surprise. It’s not something he anticipated but he follows the game. “I’ll even pay for both of us,” Isabelle suggests even if she doesn’t realize that whatever gold she has, used to be his anyway.

The tavern is a filthy place, full of all kinds of fairy tale folk – Rumpelstiltskin sees dwarves, goblins and in the far corner of the bar even a group of men who look like pirates but Isabelle seems to be quite content so he doesn’t say a word. They take a table and he eyes its surface suspiciously – if he puts his elbows on the layer of sticky grease that has probably collected on it over the years, he’s likely to be permanently glued to it. The light is dim and the chatter of drunk men is so loud so the sorcerer has no concern to be recognized.

“It’ll be my first strong drink,” the girl confesses when a grumpy waitress brings them each a pint of ale. Without meaning to, she makes him feel guilty. She has missed on so many things, on simple pleasures of life. While she was his world he failed to give the world to her, selfishly keeping her away from… well, everything.

“Don’t you like ale?” Isabelle asks, her voice full of concern, reaching forward to cover his hand and Rumpelstiltskin snaps out of his thoughts.

“Oh no, it’s not that,” the sorcerer raises his mug and gently clicks it against hers. “To the adventure and the happy ending you seek,” he toasts and curiously watches the girl sip the rich dark beverage.

Isabelle cants her face at the unfamiliar bitterness at first but she adjusts to it quickly and finishes her mug with admirable determination. Her cheeks redden as the alcohol makes her blood circulate faster and she suggests taking some fresh air. Not quite trusting her to do it alone while the place is crowded with men who gave her more than one wishful glare, Rumpelstiltskin follows the girl outside, feeling relieved as the cool night air washes over his face.

They walk around the corner and Isabelle leans against the wall. She watches him with a small smirk on her lips and the man can tell there’s something on her mind.

“Oh just say it already. You look like you’ll burst if you don’t get it out,” he snaps but the girl’s smile only widens.

“I still have two more wishes, you know,” she says mischievously and by the way she bites down on her bottom lip, he knows exactly what will follow next. “My second one will be…” her voice gets quieter and Rumpelstiltskin instinctively steps closer to hear her. Why he suddenly finds himself standing close – too close – to her is a mystery even to him.

“Kiss me,” she whispers, looking up to him and although it’s oh so tempting, his gaze lingers on her lips only for a moment before flying up to meet her eyes.

“Are you tipsy, little mistress?” he asks more bitterly than he intended but Isabelle shakes her head.

“I’m not,” she argues and he can tell it’s true. Although he senses the alcohol in her breath, the girl’s eyes are clear and confident. She rises to her toes not breaking the eye contact. “Kiss me. Please,” she repeats in a small voice and he knows he doesn’t have to nor is he obliged by magic but it’s too good of an opportunity to pass. Especially when he wants to do it more than he cares for air.

“Yes,” he breathes, leaning in and Isabelle makes a strangled noise of enjoyment, pressing herself against him as she opens her mouth for him eagerly. The tip of her tongue strokes against his bottom lip and then boldly across the seam of his mouth, sliding in without hesitation. Rumpelstiltskin cannot quite grasp what is different about the way she kisses him, but there’s hunger that had not been there before and the urgency. Isabelle rakes her fingers through his hair before resting her palm against the back of his head, guiding the man even closer as she explores the soft slick texture of his mouth, seeking out small places bound to drive him insane. She practically purrs as Rumpelstiltskin responds with equal passion, his tongue dancing along her own. He switches to suck on her bottom lip, gently nibbling and biting on it and she groans and mimics his movement before deepening the kiss again.

Her breath is ragged and the girl’s lips are positively swollen by the time they part for a gulp of air. She looks sinfully beautiful and he pulls away, careful not to allow the lower parts of their bodies to touch and give away how much he is affected by her.

“Was the second wish to your liking?” he quips, but instead of laughing he thinks her eyes darken even further.

“Oh yes,” she pants, slowly licking the taste of him and ale off her lips. He watches her like a hawk, although at this point Rumpelstiltskin could not confidently point out who is the prey. “I think I’m ready for the third one.” She pauses to take enough air for the next phrase. “I want you… not to stop at kisses only.”

It catches him off guard but does little to cool his desire.

“You…”

“Yes, I’m ready,” she says and despite her intent, Isabelle’s voice quavers slightly. “I want to. With you. I’ve thought about it a lot and… If you don’t mind… I mean…” she babbles but before she can finish, he’s kissing her again.

Rumpelstiltskin wants to be good, he knows he should say no, but the smell of her is intoxicating and she’s so soft and sweet and greedy and there’s not enough blood in his brain to function properly and find a reason for him not to accept. His instincts tell him he wants her and the heat of her skin under his fingertips tells him she does too and his rationalizing part can piss off.

“Room,” Isabelle manages to say pulling away enough to blurt the word out and he nods in agreement before her mouth captures him again. He doesn’t know how they make it to the second floor, gripping on each other and not breaking apart. It’s a miracle they manage not to fall or encounter anyone on their way, otherwise the world would miss several curious dwarves. It doesn’t even occur to him to use magic and he thinks the time it takes her to fumble with the key and to find the lock with her trembling hands is going to kill him.

His hands sneak around her waist and his lips find the soft spot on her neck just behind her small ear and Isabelle squeaks as his hot moist tongue lavishes the sensitive skin.

“Oh gods,” she moans and the heavy key slips from her fingers clicking on the floor but she makes no move to pick it up, leaning back and grabbing onto his hips.

Rumpelstiltskin hisses as he feels her pert buttocks nudge his straining cock and draws her away before he loses his head and begins grinding against her lewdly. He pushed the damn door open with a puff of magic and they stumble in.

As soon as they cross the threshold and shut the door behind them, the awkwardness kicks in. It’s real, it’s happening but he’s unsure whether he should follow along. Rumpelstiltskin hesitates and the girl turns around, her hands sneaking under the shoulders of his cloak and pushing the heavy leather down. He lets her slip it off and watches her drape it over the back of the chair. He shivers when he’s left in his thin shirt only, although the air in the room is warm. Belle’s eyes, darker in the dim light of kerosene lamp, look up at him seriously.

“You’re not going to break your promise, are you?” she asks with concern and the man shakes his head. He gave her no specific promise, and if anything is going to happen between them tonight, it will be by his choice and not dictated by the constraining magic. What stops him is his doubt; he doesn’t know if she truly wants him, or he sees what he wants to see; after all, she thinks herself to be a virgin, so despite it being a big step for her, she doesn’t quite realize what she’s asking for.

Belle misinterprets his silent denial.

“Good. Because… I want to. And I know you do as well,” she draws a shaky breath but her eyes do not waver. “You said that I should not rush it, that it had to be my own decision instead of a whim. And it is my choice. I’ve spent enough time thinking and I do not want to wait anymore.”

Her eyes are piercing and Rumpelstiltskin feels like his soul is bared before her.  Her words are sweet poison and he silences her with small kisses. They are soft and brief, teasing nips that quickly follow one after the other that distract them both. Isabelle moans as her hunger deepens and she becomes more impatient, wrapping her arms around his neck and stepping backwards to the bed, pulling the man with her.

Rumpelstiltskin lowers her on the mattress, putting his left hand between her shoulder blades to soften the impact. He kisses her unhurried and deep, stroking his tongue first across the smooth inside of her lips and then re-exploring her mouth. He supports his weight on his left knee and elbow, careful not to crush her beneath him, although his darkness screams to pin her to the bed and rut against her until he rids himself of the pulsing tension in his crotch.

He puts his hand on her side, feeling the pleasant warmth seep into his palm through her cotton shirt and slowly strokes in down, resting it on the protruding bone of her hip. Isabelle tenses up immediately, and her reaction cools him down more efficiently than a bucket of water would. He springs up, muttering apologies and ready to flee, cursing his stupidity for letting himself believe she wanted him like _that_.  Her fingers close around his wrist and she pulls him down on the bed insistently.

“I’d better go,” he says, his voice dead as he studies the laces of his boots. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have forced myself on you.”

“You did nothing wrong! I just… I don’t really know what I am supposed to do,” she looks miserable and her teeth nearly break the tender flesh of her pink lip. “I’m afraid to disappoint you.” In the poor light he cannot tell if the blush of her cheeks appeared due to the heated kisses or the shame of admitting her insecurities.

“Impossible,” he vows and Isabelle smiles. “Here,” Rumpelstiltskin suggests, laying back and pulling the girl on top of him. “Do what feels good.”

Isabelle nods and experimentally runs her palms over his chest, enjoying the softness of the silk against his coarse skin. She pulls on the lace at the neck of his shirt, tugging it loose. The girl’s fingers dance on the edge where the fabric meets his skin and she strokes him just with the fingertips, as if she is afraid a simple touch can hurt him or make him vanish. Her knees are on both sides of the man’s body and she’s leaning forward slightly to reach him better but she keeps her body off him. Rumpelstiltskin’s hands cup her petite waist and this time she doesn’t fret when he coaxes her down.

“I don’t bite, you know,” he says and wiggles his eyebrows with a wolfish smile. “Unless, of course, you ask me to.”

Her trilling laughter breaks the last of the uneasiness and embarrassment between them. Isabelle’s eyes quickly shoot down to him, glancing at his bulging breeches with a mixture of curiosity and raw passion but she doesn’t work up the nerve to touch him there yet. Fair enough, he thinks, they agreed to take things her way so Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t rush her, even though being so hard and excited may prove to be unhealthy. In a way, he gets to be her first for the second time, and no matter how long it takes, he knows every second will be worth it.

Her fingers steadily work their way inside his shirt and, refusing to stay restless, he props himself on one elbow and caresses the pad of his thumb across her check. Her flesh is so soft and smooth and it’s hard to be patient when he’s drunk on her proximity, on her scent and her warm weight on his hips. Isabelle sighs and her eyes flutter at the touch of his rough fingers and her own hands go still just over his heart. He busies himself by pulling the pins out of her hair and when it falls down, he’s surprised to see how much shorter it is. Her locks barely reach Isabelle’s shoulders and he idly notes how it’s longer on the right.

“You cut it,” he observes, feeling the sharp tips prickle his hand.

“I did. It was not practical on the road. You don’t like it?”

“It’s  just… different. But beautiful nevertheless,” Rumpelstiltskin assures her as his fingers continue the journey down her neck. He watches her skin break into goose bumps as he trails the delicate shape of her collarbones and slides lower between her breasts, following the gold chain he presented her with.

He sits up abruptly, cradling her body between his legs and bending down to capture the top of her breast in his mouth. His breath is hot and moist as his mouth closes around the nipple, his tongue repeatedly rubbing against the hardening point as his hands slide under the hem of her shirt and stroke the silky bare flesh of her back. Isabelle throws her head back and moans, feeling the jolt of sharp pleasure shoot through her body at the contact. Rumpelstiltskin raises his right hand to squeeze and knead the soft flesh of her chest, holding it closer to his greedy mouth.

When he finally pulls away, admiring his handiwork, the shirt is wet with his saliva and nearly transparent, clinging to the creamy skin in the most obscene way. He smirks smugly and blows on the damp fabric, the contrasting feel of cool air against the heated body making her nipple shrivel further.

He is about to do the same to her left breast but Isabelle yanks the shirt off and his eyes meet her flawless curves. Rumpelstiltskin groans and pushes her breasts together, capturing the gem in-between, pressing kisses and nibbling on the soft peaks, alternating between sucking the pebbles of her nipples into his mouth and scraping his teeth across them while her fingers get tangled in his hair pushing his head even closer. She’s making the most delicious noises, mewling and twisting in his lap. She cries out when his wicked tongue lavishes the sensitive underside of her breast and he almost disgraces himself without even touching his member. His cock is bent downwards in his trousers uncomfortably and he is certain it’s leaking and it will be a waste of magic, trying to clean the stains inside the wear later.

“Off, get it off,” Isabelle rasps, twisting her hands in the fabric of his shirt and where he would chuckle and twist at her impatience, he’s only too happy to oblige now and the sorcerer discards their clothing. The full skin to skin contact is tantalizing and he needs more, so much more.

Her small fingers close around his aching shaft and he grits his teeth together, a wounded sound still escaping. Her eyes are wide as the girl watches the foreskin cover the head on the upwards pull and expose the wet glistening head when her hand lowers.

Her slow ~~l~~ pace falters when Rumpelstiltskin’s fingers reach her core, gasping when he finds the thick moisture there and gently coats her labia with it. She’s dripping, so marvelously ready and excited for him. Her rapid breath is in ~~sync~~ with the mad beats of his heart and he wants to bottle this moment, to preserve and re-live it time and again.

Even without being told to, Isabelle kneels on the bed and raises herself over him. The tip of his prick grazes across her core, and both of them gasp. She holds his stare as she begins to push down and his large hands hold her hips to steady the girl and prevent her from hurting herself.

“Oh,” she sighs, unable to say anything coherent as the head of his member slides in. She expects the pain, Isabelle has heard that it was inevitable. The slow stretching she feels is unusual instead of piercing. Rumpelstiltskin’s hands guide her up and then back down and this time when her body wraps around to accommodate his length, there’s a spark of pleasure, intense and brief, making her warm in her lower belly. She wants to do that again.

She holds onto Rumpelstiltskin’s shoulders as she rises over him and falls down and he groans. The deep vibrating sounds of enjoyment and her own peculiar sensations drive her body to move, and she’s bouncing up and down, down and up, trying to embrace everything she feels but realizing it’s an impossible task.

“Belle,” he moans, helpless in her arms and his lips find hers once again, and they’re rocking in gentle waves, oblivious to the outer world. His arms support her, stroking, touching, caressing her all over and it’s perfection, neither of them has ever been so complete.

He’s impossibly hot and hard inside of her, and her inner muscles clench around him involuntarily, but when Isabelle hears a strained hiss from the man, she does it again, grinding her hips against him. There is a fine sheen of perspiration on her skin and her legs begin to ache from the movement but she doesn’t stop. She feels like her body is building up to something, but she doesn’t know what to expect. It’s sweet and wonderful and so right, surely they were meant to be this way.

Her mind is foggy and she’s floating on the waves of pleasure. The man’s fingers dig into her thighs, and he pulls her down, the strokes getting out of the pattern, hard and fast and full of need as he hides his face in the crook of her neck. She’s only vaguely aware of his feral groans and a splash of wetness inside and then his fingers touch her _there_ , willing her to break apart and she is lost, her body shaking as she spasms over him, again and again, until she’s exhausted.

Rumpelstiltskin holds her but she doesn’t open her eyes. Her mind tells her she’d been lowered down to the bed and the covers are being pulled over her damp skin, but it’s of little relevance. What matters is the warmth she feels against her side and the calming heartbeat that is the best lullaby imaginable.


	8. A Coat and A Hair

Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t dare sleep. His mind is blissfully empty and he just lies awake, listening to the girl’s soft breathing. She spoons him from behind, curling her body around the man and he can feel every rise and fall of her chest against his back. The bed is luxuriously warm although not so comfortable; the hard wooden planks dig into him through the thin mattress and his arm is getting numb but he doesn’t dare move or stretch his limbs less he disturb Isabelle.

He needn’t have worried. She stirs in her sleep and her hand begins drawing circles across his chest that are too purposeful to be mistaken for occasional sleep movements. The girl’s fingers slide lower, curiously feeling the shape of his ribs and the contrasting softness of his stomach. Rumpelstiltskin remains still, but it gets difficult when her lips press to his shoulder and then suck on his skin. Isabelle sighs as if she finds her own pleasure in touching him and nipping at his skin. He grunts when he feels her teeth sink into his flesh briefly and when her hot tongue licks at the marks, he can swear the sensation shoots right down to his crotch.

“There are still a few hours of my birthday left to enjoy,” she whispers.

Rumpelstiltskin turns around, propping himself on an elbow and resting his head on his palm. The girl looks at him mischievously and tugs the sheet down his body, exposing his upper half. Apparently, she is not swamped with regret or embarrassment and he curiously watches her, trying to figure out how far this boldness will go.

His left hand reaches out for her almost of its own accord, grazing the side of her face and admiring the softness of her hair. Rumpelstiltskin runs his nails down her forearms, watching as the familiar white marks appear and immediately fade on her velvety skin. His hand cups her right breast, squeezing and kneading it, flicking his thumb across the nipple. She fidgets under his touch, sliding closer and lifting up her head of a kiss. She stops a heartbeat away from his lips and for a while he intimately shares the same air with her, enjoying the warm caress of her breath until he leans in and brushes his lips across hers. Isabelle sighs again and opens up to him, but the man only nips on her lips until she makes a frustrated groan and grabs his head, pulling him into a bruising kiss. She urges him on top of her without breaking the kiss, moaning when she feels his weight and his semi-hard cock press into her.

Isabelle doesn’t fret this time when his hand grabs her hip and slides down to cup her buttock. He gives it anappreciative squeeze before reaching lower to her center. There is slight dampness pooling in there and he grunts as the hot moisture coats his fingers. He strokes her nether lips, feeling them swell under his ministrations and she grinds against him and whimpers into his mouth, making him harden further against her hip.

They come apart for air and the man lets his eyes swipe down her body, past her glistening lips and to her quivering stomach. He shifts, sliding lower until he sits between her legs. Isabelle gasps as he strokes her again, now watching his fingers rub the side of her clit and his left hand on her knee prevents her from closing her legs.  He presses his fingers against her entrance, dipping them in but not pressing far. He looks back at her and then sucks the wet fingers clean noisily. She feels a rush of heat and shame burning her as he watches her through hooded eyes, humming and sliding one digit one after another into his mouth.

Rumpelstiltskin’s hands close around her ankles, pushing them up until her knees are bent and pressed back to her body. The girl is aware of the wet trail on her skin from where his fingers, tainted with her juices and  saliva, touch her. She feels intimately exposed and he looms over her, but instead of being intimidated, she only feels more aroused.

He ducks down, dragging his tongue on the sensitive underside of her thigh and she makes an embarrassingly loud moan. She can feel his lips stretch into a smile against her skin as the sorcerer repeats it, his hot textured tongue moving deliberately slow. Isabelle squirms and it’s impossible to keep quiet as the caress echoes in the small of her back, sending thrilling sparks of pleasure down to her toes. He gradually moves closer to the apex of her thighs, the touch turning into feather-light kisses and he pauses just over her core, the warm breath tickling her most private area.

Rumpelstiltskin slides his hands behind her knees, keeping her pinned in place and she jerks when his lips make contact with her clitoris. The sensation is incredibly powerful, even if it’s just the tip of his tongue lightly brushing the side of her clit and her nerves are on fire, her perception sharpened as each small stoke makes jolts of white heat pulse through her body. She arches her back, craving more, but he seems intent on driving her insane with sweet little nips and kisses, which are maddeningly enjoyable but not enough. Rumpelstiltskin keeps the slow teasing until her voice grows hoarse and she’s positively thrashing on the bed. He finally shows mercy and releases her legs. His thumb circles her entrance, applying enough pressure to feel good but not sliding in. The man closes his lips around her clit and sucks it into his mouth gently, his tongue repeatedly stroking the engorged bud. 

Rumpelstiltskin wraps his fist around his cock and gives it a few fast tugs torelieve some of the tension. He can feel a bead of precum forming at the tip and he smears it around the head, growling at his own touch. It’s difficult to concentrate on licking her and pacing the twists of his hand, so he just slips lower on the bed, capturing his hard throbbing prick between his stomach and the mattress, allowing his body to grind against it.

It’s hard to tell where his mouth is on her or his fingers because it’s just too good, and he’s touching her everywhere just in the right way. Her lower belly begins to spasm. She’s so close, so very close and Isabelle grabs onto his hair not to let him withdraw and he just grunts and sucks on her harder and she cums, crying out as he guides her through the pleasure, the caresses getting lighter as she comes down from the peak and her body begins to feel tender.

He places one last kiss to her mound and then his strong hands flip her body over. He gives her left butt cheek a playful bite before licking his way up from her tailbone to the base of her neck. Isabelle shivers and thrusts up her backside. He takes the invitation and jabs his hips forward, but she’s too slick and his blunt tip slides across her entrance. Rumpelstiltskin firmly grasps the base of his member and guides himself in. The penetration is easier this time but her muscles have tightened after the orgasm and he moans, feeling them close around him. He is buried in the welcoming heat of her body within several strokes and pauses, trying to distract himself by kissing the place where her neck meets her shoulder.

His hands slide along her arms and he laces his fingers with hers, holding onto them as he begins to move again, only the lower part of him lifting and falling in a wavelike motion as his super body is draped over Isabelle. She turns her head to the side, keeping her eyes closed and whimpers quietly at each stroke. Her cheeks are flushed and he cannot resist kissing them, trailing up to her cheekbone and along her jaw line. His every touch is filled with a heart-breaking tenderness. She is here, so sweet and soft and wet. It's bliss, being able to caress her, to kiss her, to be joined with her.

The girl moans when he brushes against a particularly sensitive part of her and pushes back, willing him to go faster but he withdraws even slower than before, making her gasp when he thrusts back forcefully, still teasingly slow. He licks the sweat off her skin and she tilts her head back, giving him access to her neck and he nibbles on it, the needy cries she makes working him up better than anyhing.

"Belle," he groans when she purposefully clenches her muscles around him.

She smiles, content that after all this time he calls her by the name she reserved only for the closest people and tightens around him each time he slides out of her.

Rumpelstiltskin braces himself on his outstretched arms, driving his hips into her faster, his lower belly slapping against her butt cheeks obscenely loud and she practically screams, clawing on the sheet. He can feel her spasm around him as she cums around his cock, her inner walls pulsing around him uncontrollably as he fucks her through the orgasm. He grits his teeth to hold back his own pleasure; he is deliciously close, teetering on the edge of blinding pleasure, but he wants to make every last second good for her. Soon her body goes limp, only aftershocks rippling through her.

There is no going back now, he slams into her, his prick becoming even harder as the tension in his body curls up.

"Love you."

He hears the whisper but he doesn't have the time to think on it. His world explodes, the hot pleasure sizzling through him, until he feels drained and his arms shake so badly he fears he might collapse on top of Isabelle. He drops on the bed at her side, letting out a long sigh. The girl mumbles something and moves close to him immediately, capturing his leg between hers and wrapping her arm around his middle.

Rumpelstiltskin's heart keeps racing long after she is asleep. How could it be? He smoothes out her hair, watching her calm, relaxed face. He knows she didn't lie, she believes her own words but he cannot see it happening. His mind is numb for a moment and then he begins searching for an explanation. True Love is the most powerful thing among all and even though their kiss didn't seem to work, it could simply mean that they require more time. What if it takes more than one kiss to take effect? Then, by distancing himself he does only harm, slowing the process and unnecessarily prolonging their misery.

He carefully gets out of bed and clothes himself with magic. Isabelle sighs but doesn't wake up, turning onto her stomach and sliding her hands under the pillow. Her short hair is spiked up and he reaches out to smooth it tentatively.

He must know, for his sake and her own. He must discover what she feels and if there is hope. If it's true, he will return to her side forever and let them both have all the time in the world while their love grows back. If not... his mind stops there and he is grateful, as the mere speculations hold enough poison to make him dizzy.

Rumpelstiltskin reappears in his turret and hastily reaches for a pear-shaped vial. He uncorks it with practiced grace and lowers Isabelle's curly hair inside. He stares at it though the glass for a minute and then shakes it until the hair lies flat in a circle on the bottom. The next step is simple but hard at the same time. His left hand flies to his temple and he rakes his hand through his locks, as if it matters which hair of his own he selects. He pinches a wiry thing between his thumb and index finger, tugging sharply and feeling it break in his hand, but it will do.

He twists the hair, narrowing his eyes at the offending thing. Rumpelstiltskin feels like his life depends on this little dead useless piece which his body grew. His hands are still, despite the adrenaline rushing through his system when he places the vial on the table and bends over it, sliding the hair through the neck of the glass jar.

The Dark One bottling True Love. Quite ironic, if you think about it: To capture the essence of the Charming clan's feelings, he used fairy dust. When he thinks of Belle, he imagines warmth and summer breeze and sunshine and the smell of freshly cut grass, but he doubts the bloody fairy magic will interfere well with his own. He rummages through the shelf, knocking down several jars with less precious ingredients, until his fingers close around the cold angled and slightly dusty surface of the container he was looking for. He went through a lot of trouble to obtain this pinch of dark pixie dust, but he is certain that at least it is compatible with his magic and it's the best use he could positively put it to.

Ensuring that not a grain is spilled, he tilts the bottle and slides the tip of the silver knife in. He brings it over to the jar that contains his and Isabelle's hairs and taps on the base of the blade, watching as the glittery black dust dances in the air before landing inside the vial.

And then he waits.

***

Isabelle stretches in bed, wrinkling her nose at the clammy stickiness between her thighs and turns onto her back only to discover that the spot next to her is empty. She props herself on her elbow only to be certain that the room is deserted as well. She drops back onto the pillows, blowing a wisp of hair out of her eyes. The girl spends enough time in bed to realize that Rumpelstiltskin, in fact, is gone and will not burst into her room with breakfast or something. And well, why should he? She asked him to grant her a wish and he did. They made no arrangements for further development. Bitterness rises in her throat and disappointment slowly spreads through her.

She stands up, holding the wrinkled sheet to her chest and tiptoes on the cold floor to the mirror. It reflects a pale, sad girl, wild hair sticking up on the right side and completely flat on the left, with large eyes, red and puffy from sleep. No wonder he doesn't want her. Not only has she failed to please him in bed - well, he did seem pleased but only due to his own ministrations than thanks to anything she did - but had he stayed, he would have had to face her looking like this. Debauched, fallen and dishonoured.

Her eyes sting traitorously and her face contorts with an effort to hold back her tears. She shuts them tight and turns away from the looking glass. If she is nothing more than a stupid girl with unrealistic dreams, it's nobody's fault but her own. Isabelle dips her hands into the cool water of the washing bowl and presses them to her face, willing herself to calm down and rubbing away the remains of sleep. She tries to busy herself with small mundane things, to escape the hurt, to stop the inevitable and painful "what now?" from swirling in her mind. She wets a cloth and carefully runs it between her legs. There still is no blood, not even after the second time. The memory of the pleasure is vivid but it only fuels the feeling of emptiness inside her.

Isabelle sobs and bites onto her lip, feeling the single tear slide from the outer corner of her eye and burn down the side of her face. She blinks rapidly and her eyes shift across the room. She spots something on the chair and where a second ago there were tears, now there is a shy smile and a delicate hope blooming in her chest.

On the back of the chair, in all its deep red and brown scaly glory, is Rumpelstiltskin's coat. The girl runs her hand over the coarse leather, following the pattern of ridges. Such a small thing, but it floods her with relief and a promise of more. More meetings, more glances and more touches. She picks the coat up, idly noting that the sheet lands in a bundle on the dirty floor and inhales the scent of dragon hide and smoke that clings to it. Something clinks inside it softly and she tries to reach inside the pocket to see what it was but her fingers meet only thick resisting air. Fine then, she thinks, perhaps not immediately, but one day she will uncover all of its secrets and mysteries. And Rumpelstiltskin's as well.

Her stomach flitters at the familiarity of the mixture of odours and she brings the coat to bed. The girl cannot help stroking her hand over it again, pretending that it is the man she desires lying next to her. She closes her eyes and her worried brain accepts the fantasy ( _the_ _lie_ ) all too easily as Isabelle drifts back to light sleep.


	9. Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly angry uncharacteristic sex ahead. I dunno what’s gotten into me, angst pirates probably captured and tortured the smut muse.

The only thing that stops Rumpelstiltskin from flinging the vial against the stone wall is the knowledge that if he did it and no longer had the evidence before his eyes, he would be tempted to repeat the process.

The two hairs inside the glass remained just that despite the amount of black dust he sprinkled them with. He instantly knew it was no mistake, yet…  He refused to believe it at first, adding more of it, shaking and cursing when nothing happened. He tried reciting enchantments, projecting his emotions and adding a drop of mermaid tears - good for healing but not as the catalyst needed to produce the desired reaction. The two hairs didn't even twist around each other, stifling to the opposite sides of the glass, separated and dead. It meant only one thing: the girl loves him not.

The realization hits him hard and his fingers grasp the table to help him stay upright. His claws leave long scratches in the polished surface and now he will have to discard the expensive item because the marks will remind him of that moment when he failed to be loved.

The memory of the passion they shared last night only makes it worse. He wants to weep but his eyes remain dry. He wants to rage and break things, to cover the floor with shattered glass and smashed things, but he cannot bring himself to do so. Rumpelstiltskin wonders if those are the signs of going mad, because after the initial shock, he feels...nothing. He is incapable even of anger. He is not even human enough to feel the emotion other people can. He is nothing more than a morphed, worn shell of a creature, still wasting air because fate is a cruel bitch and he is too cowardly to end his existence.

He spends several hours just numbly staring off and into space, occasionally shifting his glare to the vial. His body is frozen motionless and he can already feel the warm rays of morning sun creep up his leg. And then he feels the magic stroke down his spine. He is being summoned and his hunch tells him it's Isabelle. The girl who _was_ but no longer is Belle.

Rumpelstiltskin wraps his hands around himself protectively, trying to hide even though there is no one to see him. Only when his fingers meet the silk of his shirt does he remember that his coat is still in the room. He left it in a rush or perhaps subconsciously he wanted to return.

He is devastated but when the call repeats several times, the magic tingling through him more insistently, he feels the anger finally take over. He grabs the vial and tosses it at the wall with a snarl. He needs to put an end to this. Belle is dead, Isabelle cannot replace her and any feelings she might experience are as fake as the words of a siren. She doesn’t love him and on one hand, it shouldn’t matter because she is still interested, she has clearly shown she wants to be with him. But it makes all the difference in the world. He will fetch his bloody cloak and break up with her. All the agonizing efforts he put into their renewed relationship have been a waste of time. Isabelle can do well on her own; he will give her what she fucking requires of him (once more) and he will never see her again. She must drop this annoying habit of calling upon him every time she breaks a nail. He is the mighty Dark One, for fuck's sake and not her slave, promptly running like a puppy to lick her toes at first beckoning.

When Rumpelstiltskin appears in her room in the tavern he’s puzzled for a fraction of a second because it seems empty. Then he feels someone press against his back, her small arms sliding around his middle.

“I missed you,” she whispers, rubbing her cheek against the fabric of his shirt and Rumpelstiltskin clenches his teeth harder.

He turns around swiftly, faster than she can register, and before the girl reacts, he pushes her roughly against the door, pinning her body in place with his own. Only then does the man take the time to look at her properly and he feels his mouth go dry. Isabelle has done her hair up in a messy bun, leaving her neck exposed, only partially obscured by the high collar. She’s wearing his coat and judging by the open front which does not cover her completely, there’s not a single other thread of clothing on her. It’s strange seeing her dressed in leather and the coat is too big for her in the shoulders. He has trouble deciding if he finds the whole situation arousing or infuriating. His eyes linger on the pendant between her breasts, half-hidden by the soft curves.

“My clothes disappeared last night,” she explains. Rumpelstiltskin snaps out of his thoughts when Isabelle nuzzles the hollow at the base of his throat and her hot tongue leaves a wet trail on his skin.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he snarls and grabs her face none too gently, making her look up. The brazen creature just smiles at him widely or as wide as his restraining hand allows her smile to stretch.

“Indicating just how much I’ve missed you,” she says coyly and he tries to keep himself from digging his nails into her soft flesh. What is wrong with her? Why _is_ she doing it? Did he simply not realize how wanton she was underneath the façade of her innocence?

“So you still desire the monster, dearie?” Rumpelstiltskin drawls in a sweet voice and feels her shiver when he brings his face close to hers, almost touching her lips.

“You’re not a monster,” Isabelle argues and the man chuckles.  Her reply is prompt, almost as if she does it instinctively. She looks at him gravely and adds without any playfulness. “But if you were, I’d still want you.”

Rumpelstiltskin lets go of the girl and steps back. She’s lying, she must be, but he cannot figure out the reason why. He feels the urge to break her, to see her bend to his will, to show her how wrong and silly she is.

“Then I must show you the monster and prove you wrong,” he offers and the thought is dark and shamefully arousing. “Come here,” he beckons with his fingers and Isabelle obeys, watching him with large clear eyes, unafraid and not a bit worried he can hurt her.

“Kneel,” he commands and the girl raises her eyebrows but she appears to be hypnotized and does as she is bid silently. She shifts her body on the dirty floor, folding her legs under herself to find a more comfortable position.

“Unlace my breeches,” he says and he’s already hardening when her fingers accidentally brush him through the leather. Her breathing quickens a little when she looks at his member, half-engorged and heavy right in front of her face and anticipates what will be asked of her next.

Rumpelstiltskin wonders how far her limits stretch, when she will spring to her feet and curse him and flee.

“Take me in your hand,” he orders. “Stroke me.”

He bites on his tongue not to moan as her nimble hands wrap around him and she gives him several tugs, watching as the velvety skin slides over hard shaft. She didn’t see him quite that well the previous night, and studies him with curiosity, running her fingers along the curve of the vein underneath and then sliding her thumb across the slit and this time the man cannot restrain a grunt. Isabelle jerks her hands away.

“No, keep going,” Rumpelstiltskin hisses and she blushes but complies.

He lets her explore him the way she wants while his fingers pull the pins out of her hair, watching the curls spill across the dark-red leather collar of his coat. Her curiosity and the obscenity of the act are intoxicating. Rumpelstiltskin coils a lock of her hair around his finger, trying to distract himself. His nostrils flare as he struggles to control his breathing and keep it even, but his body moves of its own accord, thrusting forward into her grip.

Her strokes become more confident and firm. She could easily bring him to a climax like that, especially when she cups his balls gently and presses them up against his shaft. But the darkness in him doesn’t seek a release, it craves humiliation, seeing her disgust and her face drenched in tears, having realized just what exactly he is. A day ago he would shudder at the thought but today he wants to give in. It no longer matters. He tried so hard to be on his best behaviour, to suppress the evil in him, to give her space and choice and... all in vain. He wants to hurt her badly, to see the reflection of pain in her eyes that could match his own.

“Now kiss it,” he orders and Isabelle’s head snaps up. She looks confused but doesn’t back away. “Go on,” he presses, keeping his voice low and vibrating in anticipation, “you heard me. I said kiss it.”

She doesn’t scream in indignation, she doesn’t tell him how sick and twisted he is, how much he repulses her, that she is done playing games and wants him to leave. In fact, she makes no sound. Isabelle tilts her head and unconfidently presses several dry kisses to the side of his member with feverish lips. His eyes roll back in his head; not so much for the sensation but knowing that she’s actually doing it, down on the floor like that, the same lips he was afraid to kiss now caressing him intimately  almost has him undone.

“Look up,” Rumpelstiltskin demands and she does. The image of her flushed face (is she ashamed? Aroused? Confused?) and wide eyes will be imprinted in his memory for eternity.

”Wet your lips,” he man presses and watches as her tongue darts out and strokes along the curves of her full lips. Isabelle seems in some kind of trance as she doesn’t break the eye contact and squirms on the floor, expecting the next instructions.

“Part them and kiss the tip of it.”

Slowly, she complies and her warm moist lips wrap around the head of his cock tentatively. It looks dirty, it is maddening and then her soft tongue swipes across him, sending sharp white jolts of pleasure prickling through his body.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters and she lets go of his member to grin. It’s a knowing smile, a lustful one as if she realizes that even though he towers over her, she is the one in charge and holding the power.

He runs his thumb across her lip, hooking it inside and exposing her small white teeth.

"I did not tell you to stop," Rumpelstiltskin observes and the girl swallows noisily before returning to her task. She adjusts quickly, the licks ceasing to be random and narrowing to his frenulum when she realizes that this spot is the one that earns her involuntary groans from the man. Isabelle tries to take more of it into her mouth, stopping when the spongy head presses against the roof of her mouth and nearly gags her.

Her hands caress the tight leather of his breeches, but she neither pushes him away nor pulls the man closer. She lets the head pop out of her mouth and hums, running her lips along the side again, the sound she makes and her willingness making his testicles draw up to his body. The girl's hand closes around the base of his shaft and holds him steady while she flicks her tongue at the tip, looking up at him with her darkened eyes. She sucks the head into her mouth and it's too much, he won't last under this torturous caress.

Rumpelstiltskin grabs her upper arms and yanks her to her feet roughly, cursing as his wet cock bobs and grazes across her stomach in the opening of his coat.

"Get on the bed," he commands in a husky voice. "No, leave it on," he adds when the girl tries to slide the coat off her shoulders. She gets on the mattress, her hands limp at her sides.

"Spread your legs." There is blush blooming on her checks once again but she opens her thighs. "Wider."

Isabelle complies and he looks at her, wantonly stretched out for him, her chest heaving and both of them shaking with desire amid the wrongness of the situation.

"Put your fingers down there and prepare yourself for me," the sorcerer continues.

In truth, there is no need for it as he can already see how she is glistening with her own wetness. Isabelle's fingers tentatively travel down the slit and dip between her folds, lightly separating them to circle the tender opening. She whimpers as her own fingers keep exploring her swollen sex, stroking the sides of her clit, pinching and rolling it between them. Rumpelstiltskin can tell she enjoys giving him this show. There is even more moisture at her opening and her moans echo in the room, louder each moment. Her eyes open and she looks at him, at his thick protruding cock and she bites onto her lip. Her labia darkens and she must be getting close. Her hips thrust upwards and her fingers work her clit faster, but before she can orgasm, Rumpelstiltskin snatches her hand away.

She looks at him in awe, panting and mewling at the loss but does not attempt to pull her wrist from his iron grip. He looks her in the eye and sucks her damp fingers into his mouth.

"Rumpelstiltskin," she moans as his tongue swirls around her digits, cleaning up the product of her arousal. The man raises his eyebrows, indicating he is listening but not letting go of her hand. "I need... Oooh. Take me," she asks in an unsteady voice and he releases her fingers from his mouth.

"Very well, dearie."

His hand circles her other wrist and he pushes her hands together and up, pinning them to the mattress above her head. The grip is probably too hard but she does not breathe a word of complaint. He lowers himself on her, not bothering to discard his clothing and nudges her legs further apart with his knee.

Rumpelstiltskin presses into her, feeling her flesh give in under his assault as she accepts him into her body. She is still hot and silky-tight inside but he doesn't pause to allow her to accommodate to the feeling and he pulls back half-way. He thrusts back abruptly, hearing her gasp at the intrusion. He thinks he catches doubt inside her eyes as he begins to move inside her brutally, slamming himself into her with none of the previous tenderness he felt with Belle. The folds of the coat fall open, revealing her pale stomach and breasts, moving with the power of his thrusts.

But when he believes her to push him away, her legs wrap around him, holding him in place and guiding him deeper. She moans and thrashes under the man, a few strands of hair getting plastered to her damp forehead.

He keeps plunging into her mercilessly, feeling his body approaching release but it's just a physical reaction. His mind is distanced and he thinks about how ridiculously pointless the movements are, how silly his own groans sound to his ears and how obscene the wet noise of her lubrication is. He cums but it holds little pleasure, his climax almost painful as he indifferently empties himself inside the girl.

He pulls his softening cock out and sits upwards immediately, tucking himself in and turning his back to Isabelle.

"Satisfied, dearie?" He spits, his voice full of loathing. He’s tricked, he’s lied and he’s killed. Now he has abused another being, who trusted him and accepted him even as he forced her to do these indecent and depraved things. "That is what you called me for, isn't it? Is everything to your liking?"

The words drip like acid, but can he really do any more harm?

Her hand touches his shoulder and he suppresses the urge to recoil. He feels dirty but no water in the world can remove the feeling of filth clinging to him. Isabelle's hand slides lower across his chest and he can see the red marks on her wrist. It makes him sick to his stomach.

"Yes," she says simply, rubbing her face against the damp hair at the back of his neck. He tenses up under the touch.

"And why is that, dearie?" He wants to call her bluff because he cannot take anymore lies. He needs to get up and leave, to get as far away from her burning touch as possible but something holds him in place.

"Because you guided me. Because you showed me how to please you better and I am grateful."

Her words stab him and he covers his face with his hands. Dear gods, what is she saying? But then, Belle saw him kill and forgave him. Is there anything she would not justify? Anything she would not accept in him?

"Don't you think it was wrong?" He prompts with a desperate moan. Why doesn't she _see_? What kind of illusions is she nursing?

"Wrong?" Isabelle sounds genuinely puzzled and he thinks no one could be as cunning or stupid to keep lying to him. "Could any deed between two people who love each other be viewed as wrong?"

She squeaks as he throws her hands off him and turns around, digging his clawed fingers into her forearms through the leather.

"Don't you ever dare say that again!" He shouts, shaking her like a rag doll until her teeth chatter. "Do you hear me? Never. Again."

He expects her to cry or scream but she glances up into his narrowed eyes calmly.

"You are hurting me," Isabelle says patiently. "Please let go."

Rumpelstiltskin releases her, curling his hands into fists and bends down, hiding his head between his knees. He chokes on dry sobs and shivers when her fingers reach his hair, trying to soothe him.

"I do not understand," the girl whispers after a while. "Why do you say that?"

"Because you cannot love me."

"If you just left yourself believe that someone..."

Rumpelstiltskin snaps back up, looking at her with wild eyes.

"It doesn't matter what _I_ believe. It is you, dearie, who is incapable of love," he says bitterly before adding almost inaudibly. "Because of me."

"Why you..."

"We have known each other before," the man interrupts her. "Before I saw you in the garden that day. That's how I knew your name. That's why I never demanded anything in return for the deals." Rumpelstiltskin swallows heavily before continuing. "She loved me, you know," he says almost apologetically. "Belle... _You._ Really, really loved me." He thinks she will laugh at him, because truly, isn't the idea of someone loving him more bizarre than anything she could imagine? Isabelle nods seriously, sliding her hand into his and giving him a reassuring squeeze. "You gave up your heart to save me and for a year I have believed you to be dead. But then I spotted you, alive and beautiful and completely oblivious to who I was. I didn't want to break the memory spell. You seemed happy. Safe. I tried to keep away but you summoned me time after time and..."

"And you could not deny me because you still love me, or that image of me."

He gave her a painful smile.

"Brilliant logic. As always."

"But why do you say I cannot love you?" She studies him, trying to believe, trying to understand.

"You have no heart. No real heart that is able to love."

"I think you're wrong, I..."

"Oh you _believe_ it, no doubt. Yet yesterday, when I attempted to create the true love potion, using your hair, nothing happened."

They sat in silence, but Isabelle kept her hand in his.

"Could there be some mistake?" She asks carefully. "Or... Or some other way."

Rumpelstiltskin grabs her hand, cautious of the marks he left previously and his eyes become feverish.

"Would you, really? B-belle," he stutters the name and flinches. She understands now, how much pain and regret it brings up and tries to kiss the sadness away from his features, pressing her soft lips to his right temple.

"Really. Tell me what needs to be done. What it takes for me to make you believe my feelings are true."

Rumpelstiltskin jumps to his feet, offering his hand to her.

"Come."

"Uh... Like this?" She looks down at her half-dressed self pointedly and he quickly flicks his hand in the air and a moment later the girl finds herself dressed under hiscoat in the same - but fresher - clothes she wore the day before.

Isabelle has no time to thank him. The sorcerer pulls her into an embrace and her world disappears in the haze of his magic, as her stomach flips upon the sudden transportation.

They reappear on a small rocky island in the middle of the sea. She wraps the cloak around her, shaking as a sudden gust of wind chills her and throws small drops of sparkling water at her feet. She licks her lips, the saltiness almost intangible in the air as she turns her head around. The landscape is completely unfamiliar, although beautiful in a cold, severe way.

"Where _are_ we?"

"This way."

Rumpelstiltskin is already dragging her towards an opening of a cave, hidden amongst the larger rocks and completely blending in with the wall above it. When the darkness wraps around them, the man lights a fire, cradling the flame in his left palm without any signs of inconvenience. Isabelle is tempted to touch the orange light, wondering if it is cool or hot as a real fire, but he is already urging her forward. She cannot quite explain the reason for feeling this way, but the place unnerves her and sends goose bumps down her arms.

"Rumpelstiltskin? What is this place?" Her voice seems small and frightened. The man stops and turns to her. The light in his hand throws long eerie shadows across his face, making his eyes appear sunken in and almost insane.

"When your heart was taken from you, it wasn't destroyed. The woman who did it used to bring her lover back to life." Now there is no mistake about it. This passage way terrifies her, carrying Rumpelstiltskin's voice across, his words echoing in the distance.

They start walking again and she grips his hand harder. As reluctant as she is to follow, Isabelle doesn't want to find herself alone and with no light here.

" _Unfortunately,_ " he continues sardonically, making it clear that whatever he is about to tell her next, was no coincidence or misfortunate event, "they didn't enjoy their time together for long."

They enter a large room, in the centre of which... Isabelle gasps, spotting a man on a raised pedestal in the middle of it. He is tall and could be considered handsome, if not for the paleness and the stillness of his features.

"Is he...dead?" She whispers, mortified, but Rumpelstiltskin only snickers in turn.

"No. Not yet, at least. This man holds your heart. If I take it and give it back to you, everything will be fixed. Things will be just as they have. Do you believe we belong together?" He demands insistently but she takes a step back.

It's too much - this terrible place, his words and the catatonic man in front of them. Rumpelstiltskin approaches him but her voice stops him.

"It will kill him, won't it?" It's not a question and she doesn't need any confirmation, as the way the man freezes serves for an answer. "Don't do it. Please."

"Don't you see? It's the only way, Belle. We can be reunited. You can love me. We have a chance to be together."

"But not like this. Not at the cost of his life!"

"What does it matter?" He is annoyed and disappointed and when she recoils from his outstretched hand, he looks hurt. "Is this your choice? Him over me?"

"Rumpelstiltskin, _please..._ "

"He can't hear you or feel a thing! You don't even know him," he snarls. "And still, you are willing to give up everything?"

"There has to be another way."

"Very well."

"Listen, I beg you..."

Before she can finish the sentence, she finds herself at the doorstep of the tavern, alone and no longer with the dragon-hide draped around her shoulders. She calls Rumpelstiltskin's name, with pleading and hope, but he doesn't come.

"There _has_ to be another way," she repeats with desperation.

Miles away in the Dark Castle, the sorcerer eyes the small bottle. He snaps his fingers, muting her call and blocking any further attempts to contact him.

"To the end of pain," he toasts, uncorking it and quickly pressing the vial to his lips. He tips the bottle and the cold potion slides over his tongue.  Swallowing briskly, he does not allow the sour taste to linger in his mouth.

It works instantly, wiping away the memory of loss, disappointment and hurt. Clearing his head and freeing him from the bitter sweetness of recalling the face of his love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that the angst ends here and there'll be only butterflies, unicorns and happy rainbow-filled future for these two.


	10. Fairies

"Looks like you need it."

Isabelle glances briefly at the steaming mug that has been put in front of her before diverting her eyes to the person who brought it. The stranger is a woman - a rare sight in the tavern. She is small yet taller than Belle, with fair hair (that could use a wash) pinned in a tight bun on top of her head and dressed in murky green, which brings out the greyish-green of her eyes. She gives the girl a lopsided smile when the mug remains untouched.

"It's tea, not poison, but I can sip from it if that's what it takes to convince you," the woman says cheerfully before gesturing to the seat opposite of Belle. "Do you mind?"

Isabelle doesn't, but she cares little for company. The past several days have been... difficult. After the girl gave up on futile attempts to summon Rumpelstiltskin, she spent them brooding about what happened. For some strange reason, it feels like refusing his offer was a betrayal. He was so giddy, obsessed with this idea of replacing her heart with the man's. It still gives her chills when she thinks about it, imagining the sorcerer opening her chest to slide the slimy, blood-soaked, beating thing into her. It would probably feel alien and heavy. She involuntarily covers her chest each time she thinks of it. Her pulse under her hand serves a reminder and reassurance that it was madness, she already has a heart and yet... She doubts. Why was he so insistent? Where did he get the idea that she couldn't love him? Why did he trust some silly potion he made?

Her papa used to tell her how much she was like her mother - beautiful, caring, kind. Isabelle cannot recall ever hurting anyone, but it's odd. She remembers what it was like, what love felt like but now it's more of a wishful longing than the actual feeling. She can feel anger, embarrassment and pain, warmth when she thinks of her father or Rumpelstiltstskin but she doesn't actually feel overwhelming love as she knows she should. As if someone put a stopper to how deep her affection could get.

"Do you want you talk about it?" the stranger asks, dropping on the bench at the table even though no invitation followed her previous question. "I can tell you are troubled."

 Isabelle takes a sip of tea to avoid answering and winces as the hot fluid burns her tongue. Telling a complete stranger her deepest secrets is tempting and perhaps she would feel better afterwards, but her rational part protests.

"I could help," the woman goes on and leans forward to whisper confidingly. "I help people, you know. I'm a fairy."

That was definitely not something Isabelle anticipated and she gapes at her companion. Belle knows she has a fairy godmother, but she has never seen her - most fairies are too busy doing… well, whatever it is they do, than actually granting their charges' wishes. Then, swiping her gaze over the dirty clothes and a soot stain on the stranger’s arm, she thinks fairies are hardly to look this way. The woman is probably a lunatic, she realizes. Luckily, she's not aggressive but the girl's mind tries to come up with an excuse to get away from her safely.

"You don't believe me," the self-proclaimed fairy pouts and her face turns into that of childish hurt. It's impossible to see her as dangerous now. "I am; I just temporarily lost my wings! Here, I'll prove it to you." She reaches into her pocket pulling out a small vial of light-yellow sand. "Do you know what this is?"

Isabelle shakes her head. "It's pixie dust! Only fairies can use it."

"What do you do with it?.." Her voice trails off and her companion quickly realizes she hasn't introduced herself.

"Green. My fairy name is Green, but it prefer to be called Tinkerbell." Her excitement is contagious and somehow the notion of meeting a fairy (or an ex-fairy) in a tavern no longer seems insane.

"Isabelle," she says with a smile. "So, what it is used for?"

"Oh, so many things. It can make you fly and give you happy dreams. It also helps the flowers bloom," she says solemnly, as if that was a prominent magic accomplishment. Unfortunately, the sand looks quite ordinary. "Just wait."

Tinkerbell wrinkles her nose and stares at the glass hard and when Isabelle is about to pretend she believes her - it matters little after all whether she's talking to a fairy or not - the sand glows gold for a few seconds.

"Aha! I told you!"

Isabelle smiles at her, even though the past few days gave her very little reason for feeling any joy.

"Perhaps, you can help me then," she says timidly, not quite convinced yet. "Do you… Can you give me my love back?"

"You mean you want to reunite with your soul-mate?" Tinkerbell's eyes sparkle at the prospect and she practically jumps in her seat.  "We could do that! Go and search for him and when you two meet…"

"No. I know where to find him, but he believes I am not capable of love. He says I've lost it."

She doesn't want to add anything else to reveal the identity of her love interest, because no matter how understanding people may seem, certain knowledge would not be accepted easily. Tinkerbell frowns in puzzlement but it appears she cannot stay moody for too long as she dismisses the idea and smiles again.

"Nonsense. Everyone can love."

"Apparently, not me," Isabelle says more bitterly than intended but it's the fairy's turn to doubt now.

"That's silly. Give me your hand. I may have lost my wings, but not all of my powers."

Belle stretches her hand out and she half-expects something unusual and magical to happen, but her companion simply covers her palm with her hand and closes her eyes. Her touch is warm, dry and delicate and she begins to believe that, perhaps, this meeting is her chance to set things right. However, Tinkerbell's expression grows more and more confused with every second.

"I've never felt anything like this," she says finally, letting go of the girl's hand. The fairy's eyebrows are knit together so tight there's a vertical crease in between them and she loses all of her bubbly cheer. "It's… complicated. I can feel you've had love in your life but I do not see it in the present nor the future. It's like… How can I explain? Like someone has abruptly cut the thread. As if you suddenly… died."

The words send a chill down Isabelle's spine, making her head spin. It sounds strangely familiar - isn't that exactly what Rumpelstiltskin said?

"Isn't there anything I can do?" she pleads weakly, already knowing the answer. Rumpelstiltskin had offered her a solution, but she knows she won't be able to live with the burden of taking someone's life for the sake of her own happiness. It's her destiny then, to be alone, robbed of the joys of affection.

"I… I really don't know," the fairy replies and hesitates a few moments before continuing. "You could ask the head fairy though. She used to be my tutor. She's rather strict, but quite powerful. If she cannot help you, I doubt anyone else can."

"Who is this tutor?"

"Blue Fairy, of course. Rheul Ghorm.”

"Come on, Blue Fairy? She's not real! Every child knows she's a book character."

"That book character gave me a lot of grief and plucked my wings at the end, thank you very much," Tinkerbell says sharply. "Anyways, I'd give it a shot if I were you. Just go into the forest and wish upon the brightest star. She will appear if you ask for her presence directly."

Going into the forest in the middle of the night sounded like a terrible idea and it felt silly to even consider it. But then, Tinkerbell was right, there was nothing to lose.

Her blond companion gestured at the mug.

"It's already cold. Would you like me to order another one?"

Isabelle refuses and carefully sips the cooled liquid.

"Actually, I like it better cold," she confesses. Whether it's the tea or the new incipient hope, it does make her feel more optimistic. "How could I ever thank you? Do you think if I ask the Blue Fairy to give you your wings back, she'll do it?"

Tinkerbell shakes her head.

"It's not that simple. I have to earn them back, little by little. But don't worry, I'll manage. Seeing people I helped find happiness is enough reward for a fairy."

They spend the rest of the evening talking and laughing at the amusing stories Tinkerbell shares over their mugs of tea.

The next day Isabelle spends in bed, tossing and turning as she tries to catch some sleep. She is too anxious but she doesn't want to feel tired when she sets out to find the Blue Fairy. Isabelle leaves as soon as she can see the first stars peek out on the inky sky, leaving Phillipe in the stables - she was told to go alone, after all. Trying to find a path in the forest after the dark is strange, especially since she doesn't know where she's going, but she doesn't feel any fear. The sky clears and the girl can see everything quite clearly.  Moon-lit trees look peaceful and even the eerie shadows they cast hold a captivating beauty to them.

When Isabelle comes to a clearing, she decides it's as good a place as any. She's a bit confused as to what to do next, so she silently wishes for the Fairy to appear. Nothing happens, so the girl clears her throat and tries once more.

"Blue Fairy? Could I please speak to you? Rheul Ghorm? I was told I could ask you for help."

She looks up at the sky and waits, then waits some more and just when she's about to turn away, the brightest star in Greater Dog flickers. It appears to be moving, becoming less glaring but somehow bigger, until Isabelle can make out the shape. This time the girl doesn't doubt she's seeing a fairy - tiny as she is, the creature sparkles with dust, dressed from head to toe indeed in blue (did she get her name for the colour or began wearing it because of the name?) and even her wand seems to glow indigo.

"Blue Fairy," Isabelle repeats in awe and is graced by a courteous bow. "You came!"

"Indeed I have child," the head fairy replies in a high pitched melodical voice, stretching the words and almost singing. Her speech is accented, as if she doesn't speak in this tongue often. She looks young but the legends say she goes back to the first men. It would explain her inclination to call Isabelle a child. The girl can tolerate it as long as she's not treated as one.

"I need your help, please. I…"

"I know what you require, sweet girl," the fairy interrupts. "I see great darkness in your past. You have been marked by the demon but twice," Isabelle starts to feel annoyance at the sing-song voice. Marked by the demon? What is _that_ supposed to mean?

"I shall not help you to rejoin with him, child. Despite your hopes, the Dark One can never be worthy or your love and never truly love you. The remains of his soul has shrunk and as such, are incapable of any emotion. He knows only misery and fear and he exists merely to carry on causing trouble," Rheul Ghorm continues mournfully and Isabelle bites her lip.

She recalls Rumpelstiltskin’s trembling hands they first came in contact with her skin. How he both recoiled and longed for her touch. His tentative kisses and sharp words, his shy smiles and the sadness of his eyes. How can this floating ancient pixie speak of him like that? She doesn't even know him. Her hands itch to swat her away like a fly, but Isabelle suppresses the urge. She thinks, if the fairy is still rambling, that means something can be done but she doesn't want to act for fear the girl will be reunited with Rumpelstiltskin or, rather, the soul-eating demon Blue mistakes him for.  But what if she will still grant Isabelle's wish and return her ability to love? Then, no matter if the girl remembers her previous life with the sorcerer or not, she can still find him and they can start all over.

"You are right, Rheul Ghorm, I understand," she replies, doing her best to keep the sarcasm from seeping into her words. She is not entirely successful as her voice wavers but luckily the fairy mistakes it for genuine pity and remorse. "But what should I do? I cannot live unloving. I want to be whole," she presses but Blue's eyes narrow as if she tries to see through her. Taking a deep breath, Isabelle tries another lie. "I realize I have made the mistake of trusting the Dark One, but I could still make some other man - good man - happy. I want this so badly, Rheul Ghorm." Her eyes water with self-loathing at this undignified pretense, the screamingly fake words making her stomach sick.

Blue watches her, shifting her gaze from Belle's tearful eyes to bitten lips and trembling hands and cocks her head to the side.

"I can sense how desperate you are, child, but I cannot give you your heart back. But fear not, I have something else for you."

She swishes her tiny wand, sending blue sizzling sparks through the air and Isabelle bends to pick up whatever was dropped to her feet. She turns the object this and that way, trying to determine whether it was some joke.

"It’s… it's a ball of yarn," she observes, feeling quite silly. Is she supposed to knit something? How will that help?

"It's not just a ball of yarn, it's magical." The girl raises her eyebrows.  And there she thought Rumpelstiltskin was eccentric. "Hold onto the end of the thread, and it will lead the way to your destiny."

The fairy refuses to explain further and Isabelle thanks her politely. Blue disappears and things grow dark around the girl, who remains in the same spot.

Where does her destiny lie? Would the yarn lead her back to the tavern, or her father's castle or, perhaps, Rumpelstiltskin's lair?

It would make more sense to return to bed and set out on the journey in the morning, feeding Phillipe and replenishing her supplies. Yet, Isabelle cannot help her curiosity. She wants to… No. She _needs_ to know what the future has in store for her. Firmly holding the end of the thread in her fist, the girl drops the yarn (blue, of course it is blue) onto the ground. It is immediately lost in the tall grass, but then the thread in her hand stretches forward tight and, following the pull, Isabelle walks away from the clearing and deeper into the forest towards - if Blue Fairy can be trusted on that - her destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason this chapter was difficult to write. I guess I don't like fairies and fairies don't like me. Hope this struggle didn't show much.  
> Yeah, I know I promised 10 chapters and rainbows but it's not working out so well. I'm trying though! Sorry if you hate long fics. Too late to turn back now :(


	11. Lake Nostos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yep, spoilers right in the title

The road to her destiny lies through an impenetrable forest, for the spinning ball of yarn, invisible in the dark grass, takes her further and further to the heart of the woods, where, it appears, no man has walked before her and no animal trampled a trail. The silence is broken by the loud cracking of dry branches under her boots and Isabelle hopes it will keep the predators away rather than attract them. She shivers when something brushes her on the shoulder, but when she spins around, she hears a hoot - although the girl cannot see the bird - and realizes it was just an owl. Now the idea to pursue her fortune alone in the night seems less and less clever and Isabelle wonders if she can make the yarn consent to delay the quest and return her to the tavern.

She walks and walks and walks, grateful for the bright moon and the absence of large logs in her way. The trees become less dense and she can see a clearing every now and then, but the stubborn magic yarn never takes her to those until, finally, it speeds up, so that Isabelle has to almost run after it while it leads her to a glade.

Suddenly, the yarn tugs hard and the thread slips out of her hand. Isabelle yelps and bends down, searching for itbut she can't find it. She gets onto her knees and her hands roam through the grass and damp fallen leaves, but it has vanished. Oh dear gods. It's a completely unfamiliar area, she's in the woods, alone and lost… except that she isn't alone anymore.

Isabelle spots some movement in the corner of her eye and freezes in place, her heart fluttering rapidly in her throat and making it difficult to breathe.

"Who's there?" she asks in a trembling voice, realizing too late that letting whoever know how afraid she is and acknowledging her location is not the best plan. Yet again, whoever is coming can probably see her standing there quite clearly.

The dark figure approaches, getting larger and larger. _Please, please let it not be an ogre_ , the girl thinks, because if it is, she, by speaking, made the mistake that will cost her her life.

Relief washes over the girl when she can finally see the creature.

"Hello," she coos to the horse as he steps into the light and smiles when the stallion's ears twitch and turn towards the source of the noise. "You scared me there."

The stallion neighs softly in agreement and makes few cautious steps forward. His dark fur looks freshly brushed; it lieshair to hair and glistens beautifully. His mane is white though, untrimmed and so long that large curls nearly brush his feet. Isabelle slides her hands into her pockets, looking for a treat but not taking her eyes off the approaching horse.

"Sorry, handsome, I do not have anything for you," she offers apologetically and he comes closer, butting her in the side and sniffing at her jacket, ensuring she's not hiding sugar or apples from him.

"What are you doing here, all alone? Are you lost? Because I am."

Talking to a horse is less silly than following a ball of yarn into nowhere, she muses. Isabelle finds the animal's company reassuring and smiles again when his large moist eyes study her face. She reaches out and pushes away a wisp of his mane to stroke his forehead. The stallion closes his eyes, clearly enjoying the attention he's getting.

"If you are lost, your owner must be very upset," Isabelle concludes and he snorts and swooshes his tail at the word owner. "Fine, no owner. You're your own master then."

She pets his soft muzzle and he closes his eyes once more before nipping softly on her fingers. Isabelle sucks in a breath, getting a glimpse of his teeth - they are not what you'd expect from a horse. They are yellow and long, with pointy ends and protracting fangs of a viper. She shrieks and jumps back from the stallion or whatever this creature is. He tries to step closerbut she moves back, too afraid to run because it would mean she has to turn her back to it. She tries not to cause any distress and throws her hands before her protectively, too aware now that he could take them off with a single bite of those teeth.

"Ah-I'm sorry," she stutters, positive that he probably understands her. "I didn't meant to… I'll just go now, alright?"

He bobs his head, his curly mane bouncing up but doesn't try to follow her and the girl thinks it's a good sign. She slowly steps back and again as the stallion watches her reproachfully. Her back hits a tree and only then does she gather the courage to turn around and walk away, breaking into a run and not stopping when small branches scrape against her cheeks. She continues straight forward, not caring where her legs are taking her as long as it's further from the creepy thing. Sure, he seemed friendly enough but she knows how deceiving appearances can be. Friendly horses do not need to grow deadly fangs, do they?

Soon her feet begin to protest and she stops. Isabelle is uncertain how far she is from the clearing now and whether it would be safe to return and look for the way back. The problem is, everything looks the same. She wouldn't be able to tell one clearing from the other; she could be walking in circles for all she knows. She is tired and sleepy and thirsty. There're small leaves and tree bark in her hair and she begins to feel the sting from the cuts on her face. The girl decides that she should rest for half an hour and then just keep on walking until eventually she finds someone who can point her back to the "Whispering Goldsmith".

Now that she thinks of it, there is a change in the air - it's cooler and slightly damp. Even though there is no hum of the insects that normally accompany the water sources, Isabelle is certain there is a pond nearby. She quickens her pace and yes, there it is - more of a lake than a pond, gloriously stretching as far as her eyes can reach. The water is so clear she can see the soft waves and the sandy bottom, yet she doesn't think drinking it is a sound idea, despite her parched throat.

Isabelle crouches down and presses her curved palms together to capture some water in them. She closes her eyes and sighs inwardly when the cool fluid washes over her face, wondrously making her feel refreshed and less achy in an instant. She dips her palms into the lake again, watching the surface ripple.

"Belle?"

She could shake the faint whisper off as a trick of her imagination but then the male voice calls her name again.

"Is that you, my darling Belle?"

She jerks her head up abruptly and something in her neck clicks in protest. He stands in the middle of the lake, his usual leathers clinging to him.

"Rumpelstiltskin?" she asks carefully and he smiles at her.

"Yes. Yes, my love, it's me." Somehow he's walking on the surface of the lake, getting closer but stopping several meters away. "I've looked everywhere for you. I've been so worried. I've been so cruel to youbut I love you so much. Can you forgive me?"

He stretches his arms and opens them invitingly and Isabelle almost sobs, overwhelmed with happiness.

"Rumpelstiltskin," she beams, springing to her feet and closing the distance between them in few quick jumps.  The girl collides into himbut he's strong and keeps his balance, otherwise the impact would send them both into the lake. She pays no mind to the cold water that begins to soak her boots and only clings to him harder, intertwining her own fingers behind his back not to let go.

"I was so afraid you didn't want me, that you left me forever," she says in a small voice as his hand strokes her tangled hair.

"Never, my sweet Belle. I love you, I've always loved you and I would never leave you alone," Rumpelstiltskin whispers and she raises her head, resting her chin on his chest and searching his face to see if he's telling the truth.

His large eyes meet her blue ones calmly and the wrinkles in the corners hold no mischief. She feels like she's floating, gliding across the lake and Isabelle takes in his features hungrily, from the long nose to the silvery scales on his forehead and temples. She frowns, spotting the unfamiliar colour but then he ducks his head and her eyes flutter closed on their own will.

His lips are cold and the kiss tastes of murky swamp water. The way his mouth moves over hers is different, unfamiliar and it unnerves her. Rumpelstiltskin pulls away briefly but before she can inhale, he's kissing her again, insistent and rough, drinking in her breath. She doesn't like it, it feels wrong, _he_ is wrong - cold and forceful and… Isabelle has no time to finish the thought as suddenly the water under her feet refuses to support her weight and she falls down.

She opens her mouth to screambut she can't. She can still feel Rumpelstiltskin's hands around her and he smiles cruelly. His hands slide up to her neck and his long fingers curl around it, squeezing and holding her down. Isabelle begins thrashing and kicking, clawing at his hand. Her lungs are on fire and her vision begins to swim. She inhales but instead of blissful air it's water that chokes her and further increases the burning.

There is nothing holding her neck now; instead, something around her ankle pulls her deeper and deeper to the bottom of the lake. She tries to kick and moves her arms in large arcs in an attempt to swim up, up to the moon light, up to the surface and life and air, but she's sinking, the merciless clutches of death dragging her lower and lower.

It's the end and she knows it as she closes her eyes. It's no more than stating the obvious and the thought holds no bitterness of regret to it. She can feel the water push and move around her, but it's irrelevant. Something nudges her ribs and she grabs onto it as more of an instinct than cautious decision. There is a pull and the girl squeezes the soft hair between her fingers harder. She cannot quite tell if she's being dragged sideways or upwards and she idly wonders why her dying brain did not come up with a more pleasant hallucination.

Suddenly, the sounds of the night wash down on her and she can feel the cold air on her face. Something splatters under her and quickly guides her away and pushes the girl onto the shore. Isabelle's trembling hands find sand and leaves and she rolls them into fists, trying to support herself and she coughs and wheezes, drawing in panicked breaths. 

The pain in her chest subsides eventually and she looks up at her savior. She blinks the tears from her eyes, both from the pain in her body and relief of being alive.

"Thank you," she says in a hoarse voice and he butts his head against hers gently, his soaked mane dripping more water onto her breeches. She looks over her shoulder at the lake. The surface is still and presents no signs of anyone on the shore or beneath the water.

"That wasn't Rumpelstiltskin, was it?" Isabelle asks rhetorically and tries to stand on her feet, holding onto the stallion's neck for support.

Her legs feel like they are made of cottonbut she stubbornly wills her body to comply. It's not safe staying on the shore, when the lake's habitant is still there and just as deadly. The girl is still in danger, her clothes are wet, she feels weak as a kitten and now there's dirt on her hands but the air has never been sweeter.

"Wait, I'll clean up a bit and we'll go," she tells the horse or whatever it is and bends down to wash her hands.

She half-expects Rumpelstiltskin's imposter to jump out of the waterbut nothing happens. The girl cleans her hands and stares at the water. Strangely enough, after nearly drowning she still feels thirsty. Well, it will hardly hurt her now, she thinks, shrugging and scoops up the water in her palm.

Surprisingly, it doesn't taste like anything (she thought it to be murky like the creature's lips) but as soon as the water trickles down her throat, Isabelle gasps and doubles over at the sharp pain in her chest. Bright, nearly blinding and vivid memories shoot through her head.

_She is in a cell, weak from the fever and pain while Rumpelstiltskin holds her hand._

_Rumpelstiltskin laughs and swings her around in his lab._

_Regina gives her a knife and orders her to kill Snow White._

_Daniel, sad and insane, curled around himself in the corner on the bed._

_Rumpelstiltskin on the floor, breathless._

_Regina's eyes glow triumphantly as she rips her heart out._

_She sits on the floor, crying and chanting she loves him over and over again._

She remembers it all - the pain and joy and Belle's perception of the past few month changes as well. She feels like she could cry, she is shaking again. She needs to see him, to tell him she loves him again.

"Rumpelstiltskin!" she calls. The horse rears up, startled by her sudden shriek and the girl comes towards her savior, patting his back to calm him down. "Rumpelstiltskin, I summon thee. Please," she adds quietly.

There is no change and she sighs. Out of all the times she needed him, not showing up right now is the worst. Is he really _that_ upset she forbade him to kill Daniel to retrieve her heart?

"Can you take me to him?" she asks the stallion and he eyes her suspiciously. "He won't hurt you, I promise. And he has all kinds of delicious food in his Castle. Or he can summon it," she says seductively and he snorts in consent.

She grabs a fistful of his mane and climbs onto his back, making sure she doesn't pull his hair too much. They both are still wet from the lake but sitting on a damp horseback without the saddle feels strangely comfortable. Belle doesn't let go of his mane though, tangling her other hand it in as well not to slip off onto the ground during the ride.

"Uh… Go?" she suggests, gently squeezing his sides and bending down to lay along his neck. "To the Dark Castle, please."

The stallion is off in a blink. He is fast, faster than Belle anticipated and the surrounding world blurs into one large greyish shape as he practically flies ahead. While normally there would be bouncing and shaking, he carries her smoothly, gliding through the forest. She's getting cold as the air streams over her but she pays it no mind to that inconvinience.

It takes her approximately twenty minutes to get there. One moment she sees nothing but the blur surrounding them and then the other the stallion slows to a trot and Belle takes in the tall towers and heavy castle gates. Home. She is home.


	12. Unwanted

She jumps down, landing somewhat clumsily and pushes at the gates. They open without a creek, making her smile.  He didn't ward the Castle to refuse her entry. Glancing back and gesturing for the steed to follow, they walk the broad path to the main doors.

"I don't know if there're any stables," she confesses apologetically. "Would you mind waiting here a bit?"

Whether he does or not, there is little choice. The doors fling open before she can touch them and the owner of the Castle greets her in the hallway.

"Well, well," he drawls in his high impish voice, the one he so often used to intimidate her when she wasn't aware of the man behind the mask. Belle smiles widely and hurries closer to him. "I do believe I have an intruder."

The girl frowns at his cool welcome. Was it too foolish to expect he'd be happy to see her?

"Rumpelstiltskin?"

"Indeed I am," he says but remains in his place.

"What is the matter? It's me. I remember."

"I do believe we have never met before. Have you come for a deal or do you wish to slay the beast? In case it's the latter, I would advise you to have some weapon."

Nothing he's saying makes sense.

"I don't need any weapon. What have you done with yourself?"

"Ah! I see. You're a witch!"

"Why would you call me that? Rumpelstiltskin, you have to remember…"

The sorcerer walks around her lightly, taking in the soaked clothes sticking to her skin and the wet hair plastered to her face. His eyes are piercing, judging and hold no recognition. He looks amused, though, not having many visitors makes him curious as to her purpose.

"Firstly," he continues, bending a finger, "you were able to pass my wards. Secondly," another finger, "you came in stinking of fairy dust and riding a kelpie."

"A what? Listen, he just saved me and I…"

"Kelpies do not save humans from anything, they do quite the opposite. You might have been a siren to own one but from your pitiful looks I can tell you are not. You are not that kind of pretty, dearie, besides, you're wet," he interrupts her and crooks his third finger. "And thirdly, this."

Rumpelstiltskin makes a stabbing motion with his left hand, sending a cloud of purple smoke in her direction. For a moment, Belle is wrapped in it. The smell of this magic tickles her nose and she sneezes, but otherwise she is not affected by it. The man's eyes go wide and he swears, trying again.

This time the smoke is thicker and it engulfs her from head to toe.  The pendant - his gift - gets heated against her skin but no other visible changes occur.

"What is this magic?" He looks so lost and almost becomes smaller, all the pride and confidence leaking out of him. Belle hooks her fingers under the gold chain and pulls the sapphire from under her clothes. His large eyes follow her movements and narrow at the sight of the gem, comically shifting from side to side at the swaying pendant.

Belle tries to think hard, but the only thing she can come up with is True Love's kiss. She knows it didn't always work in the past, but it _has_ to now; she needs to find a way to get closer to the man to kiss him.

"How about a deal, Rumpelstiltskin?" she asks airily. "I give you this - a charm, powerful enough to withstand the magic of the Dark One. And in return, I get to kiss you."

The bewilderment on his face is precious and she nearly laughs at how confused he is. But he wants the gem and the man can hardly refuse a deal. He cocks his head and studies her, before giving the girl a wide smirk.

"I get it in exchange for one kiss?"

"No. As many as I require. Are you going to negotiate the use of tongue as well?"

"You are insane."

"So what of it? It's no harm to you. Don't tell me you're nervous about kissing a girl, Rumpelstiltskin."

"I'm not!" he snaps. "What if you are a succubus?"

"Are you dreaming? Besides, would I look like this if I were trying to seduce you?"

His fingers dance in the air as he hesitates.

"Fine then," he sighs. "But I want the pendant before we do it."

"Nuh-huh.  Ladies first, don't you know?"

"You're hardly a lady," he grumbles as Belle presses herself against him. "You're cold!"

"Oh, be quiet," she orders and tiptoes to reach him.

Unlike the lake creature, this Rumpelstiltskin is warm. She wants to start slow, but it's been too long since she kissed him. The last memory or the one she thinks of as _real_ was their kiss in the library, when she thought he was dying and she was powerless to help.

Belle crushes her lips against his, hearing the gem hit the floor as she lets go of the chain to bury her fingers in his curly hair. He is frozen in place, put she's desperate for touch, for more contact and she doesn't care what he might think of her.

Belle kisses him hungrily, insistently, putting her heart and soul into it. She doesn't know if it worked or not but then there is a rush of warm magic, bursting in-between them and it makes him gasp and pull away. His eyes are closed and his mouth still ajar and Belle is afraid she has done something wrong.

"Rumpelstiltskin? Are you alright?" she strokes his face gently and smiles at him when he looks down at her.

But his eyes still hold no recognition of her. Rumpelstiltskin's face acquires a peculiar shade of dusty rose and his breathing has quickened slightly. The sorcerer's arms still hang in the air awkwardly but he doesn’t pull her into an embrace or do as much as hold her in place. He licks his lips, uncertain what to say next.

Belle's heart aches, because she knows the man loves her, whether he remembers it or not. She wonders if that ball of yarn from the Blue Fairy held some kind of repelling charm to prevent her from reuniting with her love. Just when she thinks she needs to try again, Rumpelstiltskin stretches his hand towards her. She holds her breath, hoping that he'll say...

"I believe it's mine now."

That isn't what she hoped to hear; he needs the pendant. Belle must come up with another idea, quick.

"Do you... um... need an apprentice?" she asks matter-of-factly, crouching down to pick up the pendant and passing the chain to him. Their hands touch briefly but Rumpelstiltskin jerks his away as if her touch was poisonous.

"What?" he scowls, his hand swiping in the air in huge arc. "I do not let anyone in my turret nor do I teach snotty girls."

_Little does he know._

"Uh..." her brain refuses to produce any coherent thought and she desperately blurts out the most ridiculous thing ever.

"Would you need a maid?"

Rumpelstiltskin humphs.

"What on earth gave you that idea?"

"The place needs dusting," she offers but she knows that would not be enough to convince him.

"Does not," he cuts off the girl flatly. "Get out and stop wasting my time."

_Think, Belle, think! What else could he want?_

She takes a deep breath, knowing it's her last chance.

"Do you want my kelpie?"

He cocks his head and remains silent for several moments.

"Why are you so insistent on staying here? Are you homeless or something?"

As a matter of fact, she is, but Belle is not about to admit that.

"My reasons are my own," she replies boldly and the girl can tell he didn't expect her to be brash like that. He probably is equally surprised and annoyed but also intrigued.

"So, let’s be clear. I let you stay here..."

"In a room," Belle presses, in case he would be tempted to throw her in a dungeon or some secluded tower. The man makes a face as if he did plan something similar.

"In a room. Do I have to feed you as well?"

"No, but it would be nice of you."

"The Dark One doesn't do nice," he mutters and Belle has a peculiar deja vu feeling but she shakes it off. As always, Rumple doesn't want anyone to see his best part, to let anyone know he's not as much of a monster as he wants to be. "Fine; I hate dealing with silly wenches who have starved themselves to death. Is that all you want?"

"No," she sighs, suddenly feeling the events of last night catch up with her and make her feel tired and drowsy. That's not everything, not near. She needs so much more, but how could she put it in words?

"What else is there?" Rumpelstiltskin demands and she finds no powers to feel intimidated.

"Just one condition. We've already dealt for it, but I want to be clear. I stay here, clean if I find it necessary and not touch anything without your permission. But each morning and nightfall I give you a kiss. Do you want to sign the contract or is my word enough?"

Rumpelstiltskin looks uncertain and in doubt. Perhaps for the first time ever the deal is forced on him and he cannot understand what the girl is getting out of it. She gets a home, that much is clear, but why would she choose _his_?

It does get lonely in the Dark Castle, of course. He is both used to and tired of it to the point of being sick of the solitude, but he has never imagined finding a willing companion. He gives the girl a critical look. For a change, she is not afraid of him, sobbing to spare her life or running away screaming that she was touched by a demon. That is definitely refreshing. She seems smart enough and her company could be pleasant. _And_ he gets one of the most capricious magical creatures to experiment with. He's powerless to refuse a deal. He doesn't know if it has anything to do with being the Dark One or his constant search for benefits, but as soon as one mentions a deal, she's in for it. All he has to do is negotiate a suitable price.

A sinister grin spreads on his face when he finds the loophole. The girl wants to stay in the Castle but she never mentioned for how long she'd like to remain. He can kick her out whenever he grows tired of her.

"Oh no, dearie, no contract is needed. Come, I will show you to your room."

Belle follows him but the man doesn't take her upstairs. Instead, they turn left at the large stairs and pass the kitchen. Another turn and they stop at the second doors - mousy-coloured  and so small she could easily pass them without even noticing. The room is tiny, just a bed and a chair but she still utters her thanks, not giving him the pleasure of showing her disappointment at the lack of comfort.

"I... will see you later, Rumple. Thank you again." All she wants now is sleep, but his hand stops the door from being shut.

"What is your name, girl?" he asks and for the first time his voice drops the high pitch he uses with those who do not know him.

"Belle. My name is Belle," she responds with anguish and closes the door before he catches a glimpse of tears in her eyes.

***

Later, the girl finds him sitting at the head of the table in the large room. Rumpelstiltskin is staring off into space, his hands are steepled in front of his face, the tips of his fingers at the bridge of his nose. While a moment ago he was perfectly still, the man is full of go when Belle puts a tea-tray in front of him.

"Enjoyed your accommodations, dearie?" he asks with a jeer.

"Not really." She figures it's best to be truthful. The bed was hard and the room was rather chilly despite the summer heat; the air in the chambers was stale, indicating the premises have been long-ago abandoned. But it wasn't so much the inconvenience of her lodging that upset her. After her sleep and spending some time to appear more or less presentable, Belle sneaked upstairs to her old room. She couldn't quite explain the urge to see her previous chambers, but now she wishes she hadn't.

The girl wasn't sure what to expect, but they were just empty. All her clothes and things were gone. The bed was made, the curtains were shut tight and it hurt more than she thought. Like she has never been there. As if he tried to erase all the evidence of her stay.

"Why the hell did you bring two cups?" Rumpelstiltskin gestures to the tray.

Really, it's a superfluous question but she tries to explain patiently.

"So that we could have tea together."

"And what, pray tell, gave you the ridiculous notion that _I_ want to do _anything_ in your company?" he sneers cruelly, taking pleasure in seeing her face contort. He doesn't know why she’d be upset about it, but he likes seeing that (finally) the girl is affected by it.

"Your bloody kelpie is being difficult. Go feed him and put him in the stables." Rumpelstiltskin throws a small pouch in her face and the girl gives him a scornful glare when she catches it. Really, it’s hardly the kelpie who is the ill-behaved one.

"Fine." Belle has few stronger words for him but she doesn't want to provoke a fight.

She can feel his eyes following her out of the room but she doesn't look back.

The kelpie is wandering along the side of the castle, hiding in shadows so that only the white mane gives him away. The creature gives her a positively vicious look when she approaches.

"Oh not you too. I'm sorry I said you were mine but I had to be allowed to stay," Belle sighs. "Currently, you're the only friend I have so please do not give me a cold shoulder." His ears twitch but he looks less cautious.

"I've brought you treats." The girl shakes the bag of... whatever it is and steps closer to the stallion.

She pulls the cord loose and takes a peek inside. It looks like some kind of purple nuts but Isabelle isn't sure. She grabs a few and stretches her arm out, offering them to the kelpie.

"Do you like them? What do kelpies eat, anyways?"

"Human flesh." Rumpelstiltskin materializes out of nowhere, making her jump. "And it's no joke, dearie. This beast nearly bit my fingers off. Don't even think of feeding him off your hand."

"He did it probably because you've been rude to him," the girl shrugs but doesn't lower her hand.

"I won't replace your fingers if he does," the man warns her but Belle brushes it off.

The kelpie's lips are soft and his fangs surprisingly delicate as he picks the nuts off Belle's hand. Rumpelstiltskin watches them, eyes wide but quickly gains his composure.

"Lucky coincidence," he notes and turns away.

"What was it anyways?"

"Seeds from the magic tree," he replies simply as if it was obvious.

"Wait, don't you have more?" few nuts will hardly fill an animal this size.

"It will last him for several days," he throws over his shoulder.

Why does he have to be so... Isabelle cannot quite find a word for him and sighs, trying to summon as much patience as possible.

The sunset comes before she knows it. She tries leading the kelpie into the barn (apparently freshly-built as she doesn’t recall seeing it before) but he absolutely refuses; the idea of tying him to a tree is preposterous, so the girl just leaves him on his own.

Rumpelstiltskin is at his wheel, doing his best to ignore her.

“Do you want me to bring you some straw?”

He makes a non-committal noise, indicating he’s in no mood for conversation or any need for straw.  
"I... I need to leave."

"Well, that didn't take a long time," he murmurs, eyes fixed on the thin gold thread between his long fingers.

"No, I'll be back, I just need to pick up my belongings."

"Of course you do," the man agrees sardonically. "Right in the middle of the night."

"I left Phillipe at the inn. I need to take care of him."

"Who's Phillipe?"

"My horse."

"Quite a herd you've got, dearie. Well, I'm not exactly holding you a prisoner, am I?' he sneers.

"No, you're not. But I thought I'd let you know I'd be gone."

"You need not have bothered," Rumpelstiltskin sneers. "What the heck are you doing?" He snaps, voice akin to panic as her hands come to rest upon his shoulders. "What do you want?"

"Nothing. I'm just fulfilling our deal," Belle replies as her hands gently stroke the silk covering his shoulders. He's tense and unyielding and positively shivers when he feels the air she exhales move the hair on top of his head.

"Get it over with quick, will you?" Instead of harsh and impertinent he sounds pleading.  
The girl's fingers tighten on him as she bends down and presses her soft dry lips to his cheek bone. His eyes involuntarily flutter close at the touch, it's been ages since anyone approached him willingly, since anyone could see him as... well, a man.

They remain like that longer than is decent but still break apart too fast. He hears Isabelle sigh but he is lost as to what it may mean.

"I'll be back, Rumpelstiltskin. Trust me," she whispers and then the warmth of her hands is gone and he almost grabs her wrist to make her stay.

It's silly; he should feel relieved - and of course he is - the girl is just a stranger, she doesn't matter, he cannot grow attached to someone over a day, such nonsense and why is he even thinking that? He clenches his teeth and sets the wheel in motion furiously. He hears her last words in the soft creek it makes. _Trust me_ , the wheel sings _, I'll be back, trust me_.

And secretly, he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you smack me really hard, please keep in mind that  
> \- I did want the true love's kiss to work but that scene came out forced and sucked so bad CharlotteAshmore almost lost all her faith in my writing abilities;  
> \- If I finished it here, there would be no smut and I do have some in mind (yes, I am bribing you with upcoming smut in a chapter or so!);  
> \- I stayed away from deep angsty waters, didn't I?  
> Now you can throw your rock/tomato/some other heavy thing at me :(


	13. Conspirators

The tavern is crowded but she finally spots Tinkerbell and waves her hand in the air to get the fairy’s attention. The blonde nearly bounces up and down with excitement when she hurries towards the girl.

“Tinkerbell, did that man you were talking to have a hook?” Belle asks anxiously. Not a conventional start to a conversation but his dark looks and the presence of a hook worried her more than following etiquette.

“Oh! Yes he did,” the fairy answers with ease. “But don’t look so concerned; he’s actually nice.”

“Are you two… um…” cannot help wondering as it seems they have had some kind of history together.

Tinkerbell blinks, lost as to what her friend implies but then Belle raises her eye brows and her meaningful glare makes the woman understand. “What? Me and him? Bleh! Isabelle, no!” she protests as her cheeks flush a pale pink at the idea. “Don’t you know what pirates do to each other during long sea journeys?”

“I don’t,” Belle replies with genuine curiosity. “What do they do?”

“Erm… Never you mind. I’ll tell you some other time. Maybe.” Tinkerbelle stares at her feet, suddenly embarrassed but then promptly changes the subject. “What about you, Isabelle? You’ve… changed. Have you found, you know,” she lowers her voice conspiratorially, “Blue?”

“Come on, let’s get outside.” Isabelle takes hold of Tink’s elbow as they make their way to the yard. The fairy stops dead in her tracks when they turn the corner and insistently pulls Belle back.

“Wait! Let’s go back, it’s not safe here.”

“What are you taking about?” The grounds are deserted except for the two of them and the kelpie.

“See that monster?”

“Where?” Belle really sees no reason for the fairy to be worried all of a sudden, but then she follows her gaze and understands. “Oh. You mean the kelpie?”

“You know what it is?” Tinkerbell seems surprised but no less alarmed. “Okay, good. Now let’s get as far from it as possible.”

“Of course I know _who_ he is. He’s with me.” Paying no mind to the fairy’s warning shout, the girl approaches the kelpie and gently strokes his shiny side. Tinkerbell watches her with wide eyes.

“But… they _eat_ humans. They carry them on their backs and drown people in the lake to feast on their flesh later.”

“Why does everyone keep telling me that?”

“Um… possibly because it’s true?” Tinkerbell puts in sardonically.

“Have you ever tried to befriend one?”

The fairy shakes her head. “Befriend a kelpie? And who would be reckless or stupid enough to attempt it?”

“I guess, _I_ would. Nevertheless, to answer your question… Yes, I did find her - the Blue Fairy,” Belle scowls and the fairy giggles, taking a few nervous steps closer. “Her help and advice almost got me killed. But he saved me,” she strokes his neck lovingly and the kelpie closes his eyes in pleasure.

“He? So you’re not crazy enough to give the stallion a name, eh?” the blonde teases and Belle does feel silly.

“Everyone should have a name. I just… was too busy with my own problems.” She turns to the horse, studying his muzzle to find a clue as to what his name could be. “What should we call you, boy? Triton? Shadow?”

“Llyr,” the fairy prompts. “You know, the sea god. I think it’s fitting.” She carefully makes another step. “Does he bite?”

“I’ve been told so, but only when you insult him,” Isabelle jokes but her friend takes it seriously.

“Alright. I’ll pass then. So, Blue. What did she advise you to do?”

“Follow a magicked ball of yarn which was supposed to lead me to my destiny.”

“Sounds totally like something Blue would say. And did it?”

Belle frowns. On one hand, she got lost in the woods and almost drowned, on the other…

“In the long run, it did, but I didn’t appreciate the trouble in-between. I found my True Love yet I have another problem. He doesn’t remember me.” “Who doesn’t?”

“Rumpelstiltskin. He…”

“What?” Tinkerbelle shrieks. “Who did you say your True Love was? You bloody wished to get your heart back to be with the bloody Dark One?”

“Dear gods, can you please not shout?” Belle’s face gets heated. She didn’t intend _that_ detail to slip. “I, uh…”

“We are talking about the Dark One here, Isabelle. For Blue’s sake, when you mentioned being in love, I thought you meant some prince charming, not the ancient insidious imp!”

“He’s not like that!”

“Not ancient? Or not insidious? You cannot argue the imp part,” she gestures in the air wildly, shocked and appalled. “Are you trying to tell me he’s sweet as honey and goes around handing food to the poor and giving a home to stray puppies?”

“Well, no, but… Hold on, Tinkerbell, is that your idea of a perfect man?”

They look at each other before bursting out laughing, their combined giggles earning them anaccusatory look from Llyr.

“Are you judging me, Tinkerbell?” the girl asks, her teeth worrying her bottom lip after the laughter died away. “I know what everyone thinks of him, but he has always been so sweet and caring and generous…”

Tinkerbell sighs. “I really don’t know. I mean, what you’re saying is impossible and goes against everything I’ve heard about the Dark One. It’s just strange. Why would people lie about him then?"

"Because people are afraid of what they don't know," Isabelle replies with sadness. "And once they make up the legend to scare others, they no longer care to see anything behind it."

Tinkerbell says nothing, twisting the hem of her moss-coloured shirt and the silence stretches.

"Does he treat you well, at least?" the fairy sighs and Belle feels grateful that she didn't try to prove her wrong or lecture her on the dangers and consequences of accepting the Dark One as your soul mate.

"He's not too bad. He didn't incinerate me on the spot, although that wasn’t for lack of trying," the girl jokes but immediately regrets it as Tinkerbell's eyes widen to the size of saucers.

"He did what?" "Nothing! Sorry, that was a bad joke. He does behave differently, but nevertheless when I look at him, it's the same man I love." The fairy gives her shoulder a reassuring pat and it is such a relief - finally having someone to share it with without holding back, someone who listens and understands and tries to help. "Still, I do want to bring his memory back. Do you know if it could be done?"

"The only thing that comes to mind is the Remembrance potion. It helps for most types of memory loss - caused by spells, curses or any magic as well as trauma-induced. Do you think you could brew one?"

"Uh like he'd let me anywhere near a cauldron or his precious ingredients," Belle chews on her bottom lip. Would sneaking into his turret be the same as conscious suicide? After all, they are on thin ice and he'd get really mad at her doing something behind his back. "I doubt he'd believe me if I batted my lashes innocently and suggested I had no idea where two pounds of forget-me-nots and an ounce of dragon blood disappeared."

"The potion doesn't use dragon blood," Tinkerbell points out reasonably. "It's pure acid and would kill the unfortunate soul careless enough to taste it sooner than he'd say "I remember!".

"Do you think I could buy it?"

“What, dragon blood? It’s so rare…”

“No, the potion.”

"Frankly, you could. But I'd rather not see you take any chance with some charlatan. It's miles and miles before you can find a real magic practitioner," the blonde taps her index finger on her chin, frowning slightly as she thinks the matter over. "Although, it's not hopeless. I believe I could find someone to brew it or even do it myself, provided you give me the recipe."

"Would you, really?" Belle flings her arms around the petite woman and pulls her in a crushing embrace. "Oh thank you, thank you so much!" She lets go and sobers up. "Gods, I'm being so selfish. Won't it hurt your fairy reputation because you indirectly helped Rumpelstiltskin?"

"I'm helping _you_ , not the Dark One," Tinkerbell corrects her. "I hardly deserve wings when I may be of assistance but chose to do nothing, right?"

Belle reaches for her hand, squeezing it between her palms affectionately. "How could I ever repay you for everything you've done?"

"Oh it's simple. Ask your Dark One to cease the mass murder of fairies." Isabelle gasps in horror, making her companion giggle. "Ha, don't you like the taste of your own humor?"

Belle almost sticks her tongue out at the jokester. "Wait for me, please, I'll be right back."

Tinkerbell nods and the girl hurries back in, bounding up the stairs two at a time. Being in the room is strange, as she does have her memories of the two nights she spent here with Rumpelstiltskin but now she understands his anxiety and reluctance, as well as his anger and doubts.

She grabs her bag, shoving the little possessions she held in it and noting that the small pouch of gold the sorcerer supplied her with remained untouched. Belle throws the last glance at the room to make sure she didn't leave anything important behind and rushes to the yard.

The fairy and the kelpie hold a staring contest, but neither is upset by the girl's interruption.

"Here," Isabelle hands out the money pouch. "It's the least I can do. I hope it holds enough to cover the ingredients and whatever else might be needed."

She is insistent and Tinkerbell gives up, taking the gold. They slowly walk to the stables, Llyr following them in their footsteps silently. "I'll send you the potion instructions as soon as I get them. I'm pretty sure there must be a book on advanced potion making in his library."

Phillipe greets her with a soft neigh, but absolutely refuses to make a step out of his stall.

"Come on, boy, what's the matter?" Isabelle pulls on his bridle harder but she may as well try to move a mountain. "Phillipe! Go!"

His ears twitch at the sound of her voice but he remains exactly where he stood.

"It's your kelpie, Belle. I think Phillipe is afraid of Llyr."

"Oh great," the girl murmurs. "How can I get both of them in the Castle separately?"

After a few tries she gives up. The animal won't move but she cannot simply leave him at the stables. Abandoning Llyr is not an option either, as he is the only reason Rumpelstiltskin let her stay with him.

"I may look after Phillipe, if you like," Tinkerbelle offers.

"Dear gods, you are a life saver! Are you sure he won't be much of a burden?"

"Of course not. I'm certain we'll become good friends."

The girl fidgets a little, considering whether she should ask the next question. “Tinkerbell. Do you… uh… believe in fate?”

“I absolutely do!” comes the cheerful reply. “Why?”

“Because I cannot help thinking that…” She swallows the lump in her throat before continuing. “That since there are so many obstacles and we keep being set apart, perhaps we just… You know…” She cannot bring herself to say that Rumpelstiltskin and she were not meant to be together, but the poisonous thought lingers in the back of her mind.

Tinkerbell’s eyes are sympathetic and she gathers what her friend is trying to say. “Do you want me to look for your future and tell you for sure?”

It’s tempting; she could put an end to her doubts and fears that she’s committing some crime against destiny’s plan. Yet nothing in the world could be as natural to her as loving Rumpelstiltskin is. “No,” she shakes her head. “Sorry, that was a moment of weakness.”

Belle hugs the fairy again when they part, her eyes moist with the overwhelming gratitude she feels.

"I wish I had something to give back to you. If you ever need something, please don't hesitate to ask me. I mean it," she says seriously and Tinkerbell looks both pleased and embarrassed.

"It's just a potion," she whispers shyly and gives the girl the widest smile she’s ever seen. "Fate is not everything and you shouldn’t underestimate the power of choice. Be safe, Isabelle, I'll hear from you soon. And good luck with your Dark One."

Belle is grateful for Llyr's agility because she's back at the Castle in a matter or minutes. Yet instead of going to her hardly-comfortable-but-appealing bed and slipping into dreamland, the girl heads to the library.

***

"I can't believe you took the kelpie away!"

The shriek wakes her up and Belle suppresses a yawn and rubs the sleep out of her eyes before she realizes where she is. She fell asleep on a cot in the library, a book on her lap and another one open on the floor. 

"Good morning to you too, Rumpelstiltskin," she grumbles. "What harm was in it?"

"What harm? You tried to trick me!"

"Did I? Then where's Llyr now?"

"Oh so you named the wretched nag," Rumpelstiltskin's voice is mocking now. "Your precious man-eating demon is in the yard."

"See. No harm."

"He's soiled my grounds!" the man jabs a finger at her as if that mishap was her fault.

"Did you expect him to use the privy?" Belle asks sardonically. "It's bad when he's not on your grounds and worse when he's there?" Rumpelstiltskin opens his mouth but closes it again, at a loss for words.

"You'll go clean up after him," he snaps in a minute.

"But you could do it with magic, could you not?"

"Your pet is your responsibility."

Belle doesn't want to remind him that it was the sorcerer who wanted the kelpie. The girl's body protests as she tries to stretch before trying to stand up and the book falls to the floor.

"Why are you even here? Why are you touching my books?" the man demands and bends down to pick up the volume. It brings his face so close to hers that Belle cannot help staring. She studies the fine embroidery on his bright-green vest and the delicate lace of his beige cravat before raising her eyes to his stern face.

"What? Quit ogling and go do your _dooty_ ,” he sneers and the girl almost rolls her eyes.

“You definitely know how to set the right mood,” she murmurs as her fingers reach out to touch the ends of his neck tie.

The man’s hand curls around her wrist to push her away.

“Stop it. What do you want with it?” he snaps with irritation and Belle gives him a suggesting glare as to explain what she wants.

His tongue darts out to wet the seam of his mouth and Rumpelstiltskin leans over to give her a quick peck on the cheek. “There. Satisfied, dearie?”

“Not quite, but I appreciate your initiative.” Belle’s fingers curl around the cravat and she yanks on it gently, bringing him closer. Before the imp has time to object, her right hand curls around the back of his head, pushing him towards her lips. They are slightly dry and chapped but he doesn’t protest and almost stops breathing altogether when her teeth graze his bottom lip.

Rumpelstiltskin is quickly losing his ability to think with her lips molding against his mouth. He’s bewitched, frozen in time and place where nothing else but her matters. Acting on an instinct, he reaches out for Belle’s face, cupping her cheek in his palm. She’s so soft and warm, her skin smooth and flawless under the pads of his fingers and he is drunk in that proximity, of this permissiveness, of being able to touch her like that. He runs his thumb over her cheek in circles, over and over, as if trying to set the rhythm of their kiss.

The first brush of her tongue against his sends a jolt of sharp pleasure down his spine. She tastes sweet, like summer and tea, and he tries to seek out more of it, getting bolder and a bit rougher as his pulse quickens. Desire and adrenaline rush through his system, making him a bit dizzy and he presses closer into her welcoming curves, almost half-sprawled on top of the girl.

Rumpelstiltskin hears a low rumbling moan and he doesn’t recognize it as his own at first. The sound of his voice makes him snap out of it and he jerks back, wincing as Belle’s fingers get caught in his wavy hair. Horrified, he looks at her flushed face and dreamy eyes, wondering how she could trick him into feeling all this and how far he could go if she let him. Not that he’ll ever find it out, of course.

“I should go,” he says flatly and straightens up. He pulls his vest down and re-adjusts his cravat to give his hands, still burning from touching her, something to do.

“Of course.” Apart from looking slightly debauched, the girl seems less bothered and concerned about what has just happened. “And Rumpelstiltskin?” she pauses and continues only when he meets her clear eyes. “Please don’t beat yourself up over this. I wanted it and enjoyed the kiss as much as you did.”

It may be the strangest statement he has heard in the last decade. Belle is serious, neither her eyes nor her voice giving it away was an attempt to mock him and the man has no idea what to say to that. So he nods with a frown and exits the library, his back straighter than usual.

Their interaction is awkward and nothing he could foresee most of the time, but Rumpelstiltskin knows he is looking forward to the evening.


	14. Spinning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, still telling the angst pirates to get lost and winning so far!

It turns out he doesn’t need to wait for evening to see the girl again. Belle catches up with him on the stairs, taking hold of his arm to slow him down. He looks with awe at her slender fingers curled around his shirt sleeve as if they were some unknown artifact he had no idea what to do with.

“Wait. Would you mind having breakfast with me?”

Rumpelstiltskin cannot think of any decent reason to deny her, but he won’t surrender easily.

“Is that your way of asking me to cook for you, dearie?” he scowls. “What next? I’ll have to serve it to you?”

“Great, let’s go then.” Belle smiles at him as if his words were an affirmation instead of a taunt and even the shake of his shoulders doesn’t discourage her. The girl is clinging to his arm like a fig and he makes a theatrical sigh and rolls his eyes, earning a giggle from her as they descend the stairs.

Rumpelstiltskin remembers his manners and allows her to pass into the great room before him, which is a mistake. Unwanted, his eyes drop down to her leather-clad legs and he takes in her slender thighs and her curved bottom before he closes his eyes tight. What was _that_ about? He has never considered himself particularly randy and if he didn’t know better, he’d conclude he’d been slipped some aphrodisiac. Except that he hasn’t drunk anything from her hands. Could her lips have been covered in it? But that’s ridiculous, he’s the Dark One, he cannot be affected by love or lust-inducing substances. Nevertheless, he carefully sniffs the tea before putting a cup to his lips.

Isabelle, oblivious to his concerns, bends over to reach for the bread basket which gives him a glimpse down her shirt; he’s getting distracted again. The man clicks his tongue in irritation and puts the cup on the saucer with more force than necessary.

“Why do you keep wearing…this,” he waves his clawed hand in the direction of the girl and she looks down at herself to figure out if her clothes are out of order.

“What’s wrong with it?” she questions, raising her eyebrows as she begins to butter her roll.

“Everything,” he humphs, “Aren’t ladies supposed to wear gowns?”

“Well, as you have kindly pointed out, I am hardly a lady,” Belle replies calmly, biting into the roll, now generously covered with butter and a ridiculous amount of raspberry jam. She’s not exactly the most graceful woman alive, so there is a little jam on her face left as she begins to chew. Rumpelstiltskin grabs a napkin but before he can pass it to the clumsy thing, she wipes her face with her finger and pops it into her mouth in the most indecent way. Well, truthfully, there’s nothing preposterous about the way she’s cleaning her digit but it just makes him think of… _things_. There definitely is something very, very, _very_ wrong with him this morning, the man thinks as he squirms in his seat, quickly diverting his eyes from the mannerless girl.

“Don’t you have anything more suitable?” Rumpelstiltskin grumbles after she has finished her finger-licking ritual. “By the way, there was a napkin for that,” he prompts acrimoniously, but Belle simply shrugs.

“Forgive me, I had no idea it was a formal breakfast,” she replies seriously but he can see the sparks of laughter in her eyes. “And no, Rumpelstiltskin, I do not have anything suitable. I am afraid, this outfit is the only one I own, aside from several shirts.”

Oh no, she is not walking around his castle with those obscene breeches clinging to her like a second skin.

“The wardrobe in your room has plenty of gowns,” he remarks casually.

“There _is_ no wardrobe in my chambers,” she argues back and he arches an eyebrow at her.

“So sure, dearie? Perhaps you’ve missed it.”

“I think I’d have noticed if one was there.”

“And I think not.”

She snorts and stirs her tea. He finds her lack of fear and cheekiness are both enjoyable and off-putting, but Rumpelstiltskin likes the challenge. He wonders where her breaking point is and how long her wittiness will last; after all, he has centuries of advantage and more patience to vex her.

“May I visit your library again?” Belle asks politely and he’s flattered that this time she found it necessary to seek his permission.

“Perhaps,” he replies vaguely. “If you wash your hands.” The girl gives him a puzzled look so he clarifies. “Your primary task this morning is filthy.”

She groans in desperation and he quickly hides his smile in the cup. Really, it’s wrong for him to take such pleasure in teasing her, but his life is usually so bleak he cannot pass on entertainment.

***

The first thing she notices when she returns to her room is the carpet. The modest-looking deep blue rug makes her smile so widely her cheeks begin to hurt. And, of course, there is a wardrobe to the right of her bed. When she opens its doors, it’s stuffed full with gowns just like she imagined. Wondering why Rumpelstiltskin is so hung up on clothes, Belle picks the first gown and hurries off to the bathroom. If he cannot stand her current outfit, he would hardly approve of the odor that clings to her.

Feeling refreshed and as good as new, Isabelle skips off to the library. The bookshelves still hold the volumes in random order and it takes her a while to find what she requires. Perhaps the sorcerer was right about her dumb luck as eventually she spots the required potion recipe and it’s written in a language she can comprehend.

Wincing as she’s committing a total sacrilege, the girl rips a page out of the book, realizing too late that she could simply copy it. Well, it’s not like she has a quill or parchment or could ask Rumpelstiltskin for it - the man would shower her with questions. The girl whispers her apologies to the book and places it back on the shelf. She folds the torn pages several times until it gets so small that the inked words cannot be read and slips it into the pocket of her dress. Now she needs to find a way to deliver it to Tinkerbell.

There still are several hours to kill before she can go to bed, so Belle picks an adventure novel, standing right next to “665 Deadly Venoms” and returns to the great room. To her surprise, Rumpelstiltskin is there as well, his right hand setting the wooden wheel in motion while his left pinches the fluffy white wool. He stops abruptly when he notices the girl at the door.

The man watches her cautiously as she approaches but nods at her.

“Do you have a raven? I would like to send a letter.”

“To whom?” he asks suspiciously and there it is, the coldness and the high pitch of his voice again.

“A friend of mine.”

“What’s his name?” Interesting, why would he assume her friend is male?

“Hers. And it’s Tinkerbell. So, do you?”

“How distasteful. Too many names have “bell” in them nowadays. Give it to me, dearie.” Rumpelstiltskin stretches his hand and she slips the folded book page into his palm. The sorcerer squeezes it in his fist and with a puff of violet smoke it’s gone. “There, it’s been sent.”

The pestering girl thanks him but still stands on the other side of the wheel, watching him.

“Anything else, dearie?” He inquires with less bile than he hoped but still enough to make a person with a decent amount of common sense back away. Of course, it doesn’t work with the girl.

She walks around to sit on the bench and Rumpelstiltskin is forced to move away, otherwise the skirts of her pale-yellow dress would drape over his leg.

“Is that why you call me dearie and not by my name? Because you don’t like it?”

The question catches him off guard; he hadn’t put much thought into it. He calls everyone dearie, but no one has ever wanted to know why.

“Why don’t you call me the Dark One?”

“Because it’s a silly title. And because you look like Rumpelstiltskin to me.”

“Then you look like a dearie to _me_ ,” he fends away.

“Would you prefer me to refer to you as the Dark One?” she continues curiously and he scowls.

“I’d rather not. Never have been fond of it.”

“Could I expect you to call me Belle one day then?”

“Good gods, woman, do you ever stop asking questions?”

“Sorry. I just… Am I bothering you? Should I leave?”

There they are again. More questions he doesn’t have answers to. He doubts he wants her to leave but he’s not about to make that known to her. Rumpelstiltskin shrugs, letting the girl interpret it the way she desires.

“Alright, I’ll stay then.” Of course she’d take the gesture that way.

They grow quiet and it’s awkward because for the first time in centuries there’s a breathing living human in his castle, sitting so close to him and he cannot come up with a single topic to sustain a conversation. Pathetic.

“I never allowed you to take the books out of my library,” he says, pointing at the volume in the girl’s hands.

“I’m sorry. Do you want me to return it?”

“Well, there’s no point now, it’s already done,” he adduces reasonably.

The conversation dies away and he wonders if she feels as uncomfortable as he does.

“Should I read to you?” she offers cheerfully. “It’s a great book of adventure. There is this captain and…”

“So you’ve read it. What’s the point in doing it again? It’s just a plain adventure story.”

“It’s so much more than that! Besides, you never read the same book twice. I mean, you change, your perception changes and the book will never be the same to you.”

Her words take him by surprise. The girl is right but he never expected to hear something as wise from someone so young.

“Why do you use wool instead of straw?” Belle switches her attention to the wheel, reaching out for it but not working up enough courage to touch it.

“Are you saying turning wool into gold is not as impressive as you’d like?” he asks haughtily but she only smiles.

“How do you _do_ that? Can you teach me?” Ah, the stream of questions again.

“Let’s see how observant you are, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin drawls and gently rotates the wheel, pushing his foot on the pedal to keep it spinning.

Belle’s exclamation, full of childish wonder, pleases him immensely but he stops when she leans over to see better, her chest pressed to his arm.

“Dearie,” he hisses as a warning but she pays no mind.

“Again! Show me again!” she begs.

Rumpelstiltskin’s fingers feel as if they were made of wood but he tries to concentrate on pinching the wool. He almost succeeds but then the girl lays her hand on his thigh for support as he bends even lower and he sucks in a breath, letting go off the yarn and it breaks.

“What happened? Why did you stop?”

“Your hand, dearie,” the man manages to grumble through his gritted teeth. This simple touch, no matter how innocently intended, makes sweat break on his brow and to his own embarrassment, he feels the blood rush to his crotch.

“Oh! This hand?” Belle specifies and this time, the stroke of her palm against his hip is purposeful.

He senses the heat of her hand even through the leather and she repeats the caress, her fingers sliding along the inner seam of his breeches from his knee just up to his loins.

The girl leans over, pressed against him, her chest heaving against his. Rumpelstiltskin recognizes the herbal shampoo, the one of his own brew and the dab of rose perfume. Her soft hair gently swipes his cheek and he groans.

“Dearie,” he calls but the minx doesn’t stop, driving him insane with a simple stroke of her hand. Another moment and she will notice his state; his trousers have never been designed to contain arousal and they are feeling too tight already, his cock swelling with tension and desire pumping in his blood.

“Belle,” he tries again but she only hums in response.

Rumpelstiltskin knows he should get up and leave, it’s all happening too fast, she’s still a stranger but her touch nails him to the bench.

Her hand moves up boldly, her fingertips reaching his balls and pressing lightly against them through his leathers. He moans, he cannot help the low needy sound that escapes him, but she only whispers an encouraging _yes_ in return.

He closes his eyes, for he believes he’s dreaming. It cannot be happening, not to him, not here. He feels the girl’s hot puffs of breath on his jaw and he expects her to kiss him, but it doesn’t happen. Isabelle’s hand cups him through his trousers possessively, kneading his flesh lightly and bringing it to full hardness. His head is spinning with want but all he does is grip the edges of the bench to steady himself.

With unusual skill, her other hand pulls on the laces of his breeches and reaches inside. The touch of her fingers on his naked flesh makes his cock throb almost painfully. She pushes the leathers away, fully exposing him and Rumpelstiltskin can swear he feels the cool room air on the moist head of his cock.

Belle sighs as if she enjoys what she’s seeing and gives his shaft a firm stroke. She doesn’t grip him too gently; somehow she applies just the right pressure and he bites his tongue not to make any noise.

“Rumpelstiltskin, no.” Her voice is husky with arousal, but it’s impossible, she cannot feel the same way from touching him. The gust of Belle’s breath against his skin makes his lower belly tighten and he thrusts upwards into her fist. “I want to hear you,” she murmurs and her moistened lips accidentally brush his cheek. He groans, imagining what her lips would feel like on him down _there_ , if she kissed the tip of his prick, wrapping them around the sensitive head and pushed lower, sucking him in until her mouth met her wicked fingers.

Belle nips on his jaw, each dap of her lips drawing another beast-like snarl from him but she’s not scared. She moves down to his neck, pushing his cravat away with her left hand and swiping her tongue across his bumpy scales as her thumb circles the crown of his cock.

She’s moving her hand faster now, twisting it when she reaches the top of his shaft and sucking on his neck hard enough to bruise. His balls are drawn tight to his body, his lower belly contracting with pleasure approaching and his cock is more rigid than he thought possible. Rumpelstiltskin wishes he could open his eyes, to see her small fingers tighten around his member, to see the blur of her hand as she strokes him, to see the precum seep out of the slit and coat her fingers as she spreads it around.

He swears as the first gush of his hot seed lands on her hand, lubricating it and making his prick slippery. She doesn’t stop though, milking him as his cock keeps spurting, waves of pleasure rippling through his whole body as he pulses and empties himself into her fist.

It’s over before he knows it and then reality hits hard. He’s terrified now, being so vulnerable, so disgraced and he dreads the moment he has to open his eyes again.

Rumpelstiltskin tries to calm his breathing and his rapidly beating heart. He feels Isabelle tuck him in gently, but still winces as the harsh leather scrapes over his overly-sensitive head. The girl’s hands cups his face – although they feel dry he can still smell his seed on them – and she places tiny kisses on his cheeks and forehead, quick and dry, nothing like the lewd licks to his neck moments ago.

“You are gorgeous,” she whispers against his lips and presses a brief kiss to them. “Thank you for this.”

He opens his eyes only when the door slams shut. He is alone in the room, his clothes in perfect order as if nothing occurred, but his head still keeps spinning as he tries to embrace what has just happened.


	15. Getting Even

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last night one of my works entitled "What possessed me to put a collar on my new wife?" was deleted from fanfiction.net. I am delighted that my humble PWP was treated as one with sky-high rating not suitable for this site. Now, being all childish, I suspect someone drew the administration's attention to my creation. If that's the case, I would like to thank anon(s) who did it; raising awareness is definitely not an easy job and I deeply appreciate those efforts.

The girl doesn't descend for breakfast which comes as no surprise to Rumpelstiltskin. For all he knows, she may have darted out of the castle last evening and could be hundreds of miles away now - her bloody kelpie is bloody fast. Or, perhaps, she's seeking help of some obeah man to remove the hand that touched him. Well, that's a bit dramatic but not entirely impossible.

He has almost convinced himself nothing happened but the memory is too vivid. There is no way in hell he could have imagined that, so he brooded overnight, coming up with two reasonable explanations. Rumpelstiltskin dismisses the first guess - if she was cursed with a lascivious hex, he would have known. She would be more pushy and single-minded, but she speaks clearly and behaves more or less ordinary, except for yesterday.

The second idea is that the girl is insane. In a way, she developed some strange fixation on him, imagining he was her True Love or some prince charming. She is completely delusional and refuses to perceive him for what he is. Well, he could certainly take advantage of that but when she comes to consciousness, the effect of her previous actions will be disastrous.

“Sorry, I overslept.”

She flits into the room in her turquoise dress carefree and animated, without any signs of embarrassment or regret. She takes a chair to his right and Rumpelstiltskin clenches his jaw and gives a piercing glance. Her eyes are indeed slightly puffy but not as much as they would be in case she cried herself to sleep or wept this morning.

“You slept well then?” he asks, even though it sounds quite silly.

“Oh yes. Didn’t you?” There is a smile lurking in the corner of her mouth but she suppresses the grin.

“Don’t you know, dearie? Evil never sleeps,” he replies. Suddenly, she blushes as if he implied something indecent and reaches out for him.

“You have… um…” she utters and the girl’s fingers stroke the side of his neck, making him wince as the overly tender skin gives an unpleasant throb. “Yeah. I should have been more careful. Sorry.”

Rumpelstiltskin grabs a spoon, turning it over to glance at his reflection in the curved polished silver. Although the metal distorts his features, he can see a set of dark circular shapes along the column of his throat, almost as if they were love bites. No, not almost, that’s exactly what they are. His stomach flutters as he puts the spoon down on the table carefully.

“No matter, dearie.”

Rumpelstiltskin could erase the marks in a heartbeat, of course. The reason he doesn’t is strictly because he despises wasting magic. Yes, that’s right, no other reason at all.

“You called me Belle yesterday,” the girl remarks casually, looking down at her hands.

“I apologize.”

“Why?” she raises her eyes and he penetrates them with his gaze, feeling as if he were being pulled in. Another moment and she will reveal her secrets and he’ll understand what’s going on in that pretty head of hers. “I liked it.”

He narrows his eyes, moving in closer but she doesn’t flinch and they are practically nose to nose now.

“Why are you doing this?” he snarls through gritted teeth, his hushed voice enunciating the consonants. The words falling from his lips are crude and heavy, aimed precisely at breaking through her imperturbability. “What is in this for you?”

Belle doesn’t divert her eyes, but the corners of her mouth droop a little and something in her shifts, bringing forth the sadness and the fatigue that hasn’t been there before.

“Do you honestly think like that?” she asks quietly, her voice trembling in a way that sends a pang to his heart. “There is no need to question my every move.”

“It all makes no sense,” Rumpelstiltskin grumbles, “There must be a reason for everything. You cannot just…”

He trails off and the girl doesn’t add anything else. They eat in deafening silence, which makes him feel guilty although he said nothing wrong. She dabs her lips with a napkin when she’s finished and thanks him for his company nevertheless. Rumpelstiltskin stands up to escort her to the doors but magics them shut right before she steps over the threshold. She swings around, shooting a quizzical look at the sorcerer but he plants his stretched arms against the wood, pinning her in-between. He looms over her and although their bodies don’t touch, her breathing quickens and she makes a small noise of distress. Belle wets her lips and looks at him expectantly. The girl is neither disgusted nor scared; her arms are limp at her sides and she doesn’t attempt to struggle or duck to get away. She simply waits for what will come next.

“Nobody makes a fool out of me, dearie,” the man drawls menacingly and watches her swallow nervously. “I do hope you know that much.”

Isabelle nods and the fingers of his right hand cradle her chin. There is that noise again, as if she choked on her words or tried to suppress a whimper. Maybe she _is_ afraid; perhaps she merely hides it better than others.

“I don’t know what game you are playing,” Rumpelstiltskin continues, pressing closer until he can feel her rapid breaths on his face. Unable to resist touching her, he moves his hand to her neck, stroking the exposed skin with his fingertips and following the curve of her shoulder with his claws. Belle’s eyes flutter closed and he takes advantage of that, hungrily taking in her smooth pale skin and full parted lips. She is beautiful, but more importantly, there is some unruliness about her – the girl stands up to him against all common sense and he’s drawn to that strength. Dresses do become her, but while they obscure her legs, they reveal other… temptations in the form of her elegant neck and fragilely bared décolletage. His fingers keep up their languid exploration and when he gets bold enough to slide them over her protruding collarbones, the sound she makes is definitely a sigh - dreamy and far from displeasure.

“But if it is a game, I’d like to get even.”

Kissing her is the easiest decision he’s made; her soft lips willingly surrender under his insistent mouth. She moans – really moans this time as he nearly knocks the wind out of her, pushing his lean hard body against hers. Belle’s arms lock around his back, pulling him closer and gripping the fabric of his vest for support. She is wondrously responsive – hot, inviting and needy, letting him take the lead even when her hands hold him in place quite forcefully.

They break apart and Rumpelstiltskin pushes his knee between her legs, cursing as her skirts get in the way. He fumbles with them, grasping and wrinkling the fabric as he pulls them up, catching a glimpse of her naked thigh before her hips close around his leg and the skirts fall back down.

She stands on her toes and her lips capture his in another kiss, her tongue seeking entry and brushing against his own in a way that makes heat coil in his lower abdomen. The man groans as she begins to rock on his thigh, the pressure and the friction of the leather against her underwear making the girl writhe and gasp with pleasure. He drinks those moans and whimpers, dropping his hand to her side and feeling her heart beating madly against her ribs.

The sorcerer lets his hands stroke her dress, wishing that the damned thing wasn’t in his way. Rumpelstiltskin follows the curve of her right breast before cupping it in his large palm, raising and squeezing it. She mewls and jerks her hips forward, grinding against him harder. He opens his eyes and the sight of her, flushed, excited and plastered against him fills him with a mixture of pride and dark possessiveness. His cock is bent downwards, restrained by his tight breeches most uncomfortably and he quickly re-adjusts himself, giving it a firm squeeze to take some of the pressure off but otherwise not paying any mind to it; after all, he desired to get even.

He lets her ride his hip, smirking at her impatience. Rumpelstiltskin follows the contour of her moist bottom lip with his thumb, groaning as her tongue flicks at it. She looks positively sinful and he kisses her again, hard and not a bit gentle, nibbling on her lips and snarling when her teeth tease his. He idly thinks how quickly he adjusted to the change and how natural it feels to be with her. His castle has always been so quiet, but now it’s filled with his own panting breaths, mixed with her moans, the rustle of her gown as she moves against him and the occasional creak of his boots when he shifts his weight to the other foot.

Her fingers sneak under his shirt, sliding up his naked back and scratching at the skin. She groans in frustration as his vest prevents her from going any further and he quickly unclasps it. Suddenly, Rumpelstiltskin wants to touch her too, to feel her bare heated flesh against his hand. He doesn’t waste time on taking it slow or teasing her; his fingers slide straight to her crotch, pressing his palm flat against her center. She is wetter than he anticipated, her slick moisture seeps through the fabric and coats his fingers. The girl grips his shoulders, her nails digging into him, as Rumpelstiltskin’s hand traces the outline of her labia with just the thin underwear between his fingers and her flesh.

He strokes her slowly, gradually working towards the side where her underclothes meet her thigh. The contrast between the slightly rough cotton and her smooth skin is quite mesmerizing but she squirms impatiently and he shows some mercy. He hooks his fingers under the waistband, yanking it as far down as it can go before returning his hand to her core.

She is exquisitely soft and delicate as he parts her folds carefully, pressing the tip of his middle finger against her opening. Belle bites her lip and he hesitates, wondering if she could be a maiden; she doesn’t encourage him nor does she protest. He moves his fingers higher, finding the swollen nub of her clit and circling it with his thumb. He loves how vocal she is about her enjoyment and does it again, altering between firmer and lighter strokes, increasing the pace or slowing down, until he can see a film of sweat breaking on her brow and her hips begin to move of their own accord.

He spreads his fingers, catching her clit between the index and the middle finger and Belle’s hand grips his wrist, holding him in place. He sets a steady rhythm, gliding his hand up and down, pinching the sensitive bead purposefully until he can feel that she’s getting close. She tenses up and cries out, shaking as the orgasm rocks through her body and Rumpelstiltskin’s hand stops moving only when she grows limp against him. Belle gives him a kiss, light and tender and almost… loving, except that he knows it’s gratitude for the release. He straightens them up, catching her hand before the girl manages to touch him in return.

“Not now,” he whispers, placing a soft kiss to her inner wrist and releasing it from the circle of his fingers.

Belle frowns but doesn’t argue and they fall silent. Now he understands why she ran off last night; what do you say to someone you have just touched so intimately but who still is a stranger to you?

“Can I go into your library again? I want to return the book.”

Rumpelstiltskin blinks at her, raising his eyebrows in half-doubt.

“There is no way you have finished the last book.”

“It’s barely over 300 pages, of course I have read it.”

“Fine. Whatever it takes to prevent you from getting into trouble someplace else around here.”

“Now that you mention it… I wanted to ask if I was permitted to visit the greenhouse.”

“No,” his answer is quick and harsh, which takes her by surprise.

“But I thought…”

“I said no and this is final. Don’t make me ward it against you,” Rumpelstiltskin scowls and she gives up.

“See you later then,” she offers and he steps back, letting her out of the room.

He does see her at lunch and during dinner, but she’s engrossed in her thoughts and pays little attention to him. Belle doesn’t stay in the great room after she finishes eating and retires to bed early, bidding him good night absent-mindedly.

She forgets about the kiss or avoids it and Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t bother to remind her; after all, the deal was for _her_ to kiss him. Still, it was a nice evening ritual, he muses, and the one he was suddenly looking forward to. Perhaps, she’s just upset because he didn’t allow her to the greenhouse.

He sits back in a large chair in front of the fireplace, summoning a random book from the library, which remains in his lap unopened accompanied by cup of tea. It’s funny how he’s both alone and not; simply knowing that someone else is in the castle makes temporary solitude comfortable and silence pleasant. He spends several hours just… relaxing. There is no urgent business or deals that require immediate interference.

The corner of his mouth tugs up when he hears a knock and the sound of her slippers on the floor, muffled by the thick carpet. Belle stops behind his chair and he has to crane his neck to see her; the light from the fireplace casts a warm glow on her face that makes her appear almost otherworldly. Rumpelstiltskin frowns at her choice of attire– although the creamy nightgown covers her down to the girl’s ankles, it’s quite thin and almost transparent. Almost, because he quickly diverts his eyes before he actually makes out the curves of her body.

“I cannot sleep,” Isabelle complains, shifting from foot to foot. “May I sit here with you?”

The man nods and she takes the other chair, tucking her legs beneath herself. She is strangely comfortable in his presence in that state of undress, and rather than glancing at her bodice and getting caught, he transfixes his eyes on the lacy trim of the sleeve that covers her wrist and watches her fondle the material with the fingers of her other hand.

“I suppose I could offer you something. Sleeping draught? A glass of warm milk with honey?”

“Or a conversation,” Belle prompts and he chuckles.

“You think I could bore you to sleep, dearie? Fair enough,” the girl sniggers in return but doesn’t try to prove him wrong. “So, what is it that keeps you up so late? Lovesickness, is it?”

It was a simple joke, of course, but she takes a sharp breath and he knows he’s right. It feels like someone dealt a blow to his stomach, the impact bursting something very important and vital inside.

“Ah,” he drawls insinuatingly, “ _do_ go on. Who is he?”

“It’s… it’s a long story,” she protests weakly, but he holds his hands up, gesturing to the space around them.

“We’ve got all night and the whole day, dearie. No story can take longer to be told,” he pauses; of course, the girl doesn’t speak and he continues deceptively softly. “Unless the long story implied it was none of my business, is that right?”

“It is,” she replies quietly just to twist the knife in the wound.

“Oh I underestimated you, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin cannot help the rage burning his insides like acid but instead of shouting his voice is low and honeyed, tinted with dark amusement. “You are just rotten to the core. Is that your idea of sick revenge?”

“No, it’s…”

“You have picked the worst accomplice imaginable. Truly, who could be more despicable to give yourself to, than the Dark One?”

“Please…”

“Please _what_ , dearie?” he snaps, watching her slide from the chair and crouch at his feet.

“Please don’t turn it into something as… abominable as that,” he jerks his hand away before she can touch him.

“What’s the matter? You don’t like to hear the truth?” he snarls and she winces. “Did you think I would be delighted to learn that I was merely a string puppet in this scheme? Should I drop on my knees and laud that you bestowed me your affections?” Rumpelstiltskin digs his claws into the armrests, bending over, so he can look directly at her. “Who do you see when you look at me? What am _I_ in all of this?”

He closes his eyes, slumping against the back of the chair. If history does indeed repeat itself; he’s known it for years but no matter how many times he has been used and betrayed, he still… what? Hopes and dreams? He doesn’t, but he’s tired, so tired of this world’s filth.

“Come here.”

The girl pulls him down onto the floor and he lets her. He feels numb and hardly cares for what kind of excuse she will come up with. Belle pulls him into a hug, cradling his head against her chest and gently petting his hair as she slowly rocks back and forth, soothing him. She runs her fingers through his curls, separating and untangling them as he listens to her heartbeat, his head rising and falling with each intake and exhale she makes.

“I…” her voice is thick and she clears her throat nervously, before she attempts to speak again. “Despite what you may believe, there is no deception scheme or ingenious plan to trick you. It must look so bad to you now, but… I wish I were better with words, I wish I could just explain it all,” she groans with frustration, cupping his face and bringing it to her eye-level. He can see nothing but her dilated pupils, the all-consuming darkness that yet is different from his own.

“What do I see when I look at you? The world. You are my world, everything I ever wanted and cared about. And if you believed it too, we could be so happy together.”

Belle’s lips brush his carefully and she sighs when he doesn’t indicate any interest in kissing her.

“I will not betray you. I will always be there, you are not alone.”

Rumpelstiltskin offers no reply but she didn’t expect one.

“Do you want to come to bed?”

He shakes his head and they sit on the floor, curled around each other. The man is still unsure what to think about it; he knows she’s not lying but it doesn’t make her beliefs true. He cannot trace it to the exact moment where it becomes more than a comforting touch. He reaches out to her because he doesn’t want to ponder on what she said and one lazy kiss leads to another, more insistent, where it’s her turn to melt against him. Rumpelstiltskin’s hands wrap around her, she’s so small he could cover both of her shoulder blades if he spread his fingers wide enough.

She leans back, pulling him on top of her, until he’s wrapped in her arms and legs and her scent engulfs him.  It’s a bad idea, and probably a worse place for its realization, but he doesn’t find the power to withdraw. He can feel her deliciously soft and supple skin even through the nightgown and he would be content just with that, but the girl tugs on his clothing and he snaps his fingers, vanishing them.

Belle sighs when his naked body, covered in rough scales, grazes against her sensitive nipples, but she pulls him closer, guiding him to her neck. He grinds against her, the moisture of her excitement easing the friction, as he kisses her neck, drawing unspoken words of devotion and gratitude on her skin with his hot tongue. He tries to move lower, but she tugs on his hair, bringing him back up.

Rumpelstiltskin looks at her, opening his mouth to say something but she silences him, putting a finger to his parted lips. Whatever he wanted to ask – whether she was sure, if he was her first or convince her they shouldn’t do it – is irrelevant; Belle doesn’t want him to break the spell of this understanding, where the only sound they need is the hushed whisper of breaths they share.

She reaches down, guiding him to her opening, pushing her hips upwards and he presses forward. They do not break eye contact as he slides in; Rumpelstiltskin’s features are contorted with something akin to pain as he sheathes himself in her tight silky heat. He moves very slowly and she moans at the seemingly endless feeling of being stretched, being gradually filled. The sensation is so sweet that it’s almost too much, but she doesn’t divert her eyes even as the pleasure makes her toes curl. He takes her unhurriedly, bending to give her a kiss every now and then, moving his hips in even, languid strokes, even when her back arches and her hips thrust upwards, demanding to increase the pace.

Belle’s hands stroke his upper arms, tracing the shape of wiry muscles, sliding down his slick back – she wants to touch him everywhere at the same time, to be even closer. He grits his teeth as she tightens around him, her pleasure approaching slowly but inevitably and jabs his pelvis forward with more force, increasing the pressure on her clitoris. She can feel it – the low pulsing in her belly and clings to him harder, moaning as the heat coils and tightens around her until it engulfs her, swiping through her body in a whirl of white dizzy stars, all of which practically turns every bone in her body to rubber.

Rumpelstiltskin holds back until it subsidies and then he’s slamming his hips against her, driving himself deep once, twice until he groans and shakes, lowering himself into her embrace when it’s over. She runs her hands through his damp hair as the aftershocks pass through his body. She’s sweaty and her back is achy from being on the hard floor, but she absolutely has no desire to move.

“Rumpelstiltskin,” she whispers, uncertain if the man fell asleep after they spent so much time in peaceful silence. “Why did you forbid me to go inside the greenhouse? What’s there?”

He stirs, rolling to the side and putting his head on her shoulder.

“Nothing spectacular, just flowers,” he mumbles but it’s only a half-answer.

“Then why?”

“Because, I think, it belonged to someone dear to me. And because I’ve preserved it in the exact state as I found it.”

“What do you mean, you _think_ it belonged to someone?”

“I cannot recall who it was,” he sighs, propping himself on his elbow. “Every time I try to remember, it escapes me. But it feels important, so I keep it intact.”

Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t understand why she begins crying as she crushed him in a hug, squeezing him so hard he has to pry her hands off him gently lest she hurts herself. She quickly wipes her cheeks and he pretends not to notice, and when she suggests going to bed, it sounds like a sensible thing to do, despite the fact that the first light of dawn begins creeping into the room.

Having someone in bed is strange. Having that someone clinging to you for dear life is even more so. Despite his bed being large enough to accommodate at least four people without them having to touch each other, the girl prefers his shoulder to the pillow and tangles her legs around his thigh, holding onto his side with her left arm. He should have thought it through and clothed them both. Sure, she makes an adorable limpet but her small body is unexpectedly hot and her short hair manages to miraculously get all over the place, especially where it concerns his mouth and eyes. Rumpelstiltskin tries to inch away several times but she makes a sleepy groan of protest and assumes the previous position. After several futile attempts and moderately strong pokes in the ribs he sighs and just lets her sleep as she wants, not attempting another escape even as his shoulder gets numb under the weight of her head.

Despite the inconvenience he doesn’t feel as irritated as he expected; in fact, it’s something he could quickly get used to. This thought worries him, because there will be no such thing. He won’t get used to anything, it’s a temporary… lapse of his routine and the shift back to his previous existence is imminent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay strong, plot is coming. Maybe


	16. A Cup of Something Special

The afternoon the potion arrives Belle feels calm and collected. She had thought it over a hundred times and tells herself everything will go as planned. Still, the hand holding the vial shakes treacherously and she has to put the bottle aside for a minute to wait for the tremor to pass. There is no note or label attached to the glass, but when she eyes the thick liquid, sloshing inside, she knows exactly what it is. The antidote that will bring her love’s memory back.

Luckily, Rumpelstiltskin is in his turret, so she doesn’t have any explaining to do. She picks two cups, made of white china with blue flowers and a golden stripe around the rim and puts them on a silver tray alongside the potion. Isabelle hurries to the kitchen, finding the smallest kettle there is and setting it over the fire to boil. It takes an eternity for it to begin whistling and she puts it aside, carefully measuring half a spoon of tea leaves and pouring the boiling water over them. It’s hardly the way to prepare tea – the water is too hot and she doesn’t let it steep – but its taste is the last thing she cares about. Belle adds a bowl of honey and cream to the tray, looking over it critically. There’s nothing suspicious about her bringing Rumpelstiltskin afternoon tea, is there? - aside from a bit of something extra in it.

Belle uncorks the vial and tips it over the cup. She expects a puff of smoke or perhaps a change of colour, but the potion drips into the cup with a plop instead of any dramatic effect and mingles with the dark liquid instantly. The girl wonders if a drop will be enough; he is the Dark One after all, which implies increased magical capacity. Biting onto her lip, she pours the rest out, hiding the empty vial in the cupboard behind the pots and pans.

She takes extra care climbing the stairs and holding the tray steady; she has to knock on the door with her foot clumsily as her hands are busy and gives Rumpelstiltskin the biggest smile when he opens the door.

“Care for some tea?” Belle asks as her heart flutters in her throat when the man steps aside, letting her in.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks lightly as the girl places the tray next to his books and straightens up.

“Nothing. I thought you might want to take a break. Or am I keeping you from something important?”

“You’re always a pleasant distraction, dearie,” he offers warmly and waits for her to flop down on the chair before taking a seat himself.

Belle reaches for the cup – the one that is potion-free – and cradles it in both hands. The hot china burns her fingers, but she pays it no mind; the girl’s eyes are fixed on the sorcerer in front of her. Rumpelstiltskin picks the second cup, adding a spoonful of honey to it and stirs it methodically. He does it painfully slowly - as if he suspects; as if he knows exactly what’s in his tea and she squirms impatiently, moving closer to the edge of her seat, feeling she might burst any moment if he doesn’t drink it.

“Are you alright, dearie?” she jumps at the question. Rumpelstiltskin raises his eyes at her. “You are acting a bit odd.”

Is she? Oh gods, he knows. Belle tries to swallow the lump in her throat, looking down at her hands and the uncurled tea leaves at the bottom of her cup.

“I’m just a bit nervous,” she confesses. “It’s the first time I made tea for anyone and I’m afraid you may not like it.”

“Then let’s put an end to the doubts, shall we?” he raises the cup and toasts her. Belle watches him put the golden rim to his lips and blow at the steaming fluid before taking a small sip. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and he gives her a small smile.

“Not as disastrous as I expected,” he quips and then his face twists. 

At first, Rumpelstiltskin feels nothing; but then there is bitterness on his tongue despite the honey he added and the unmistakable tingle of magic.

“What did you give me?” he gasps, bringing the cup to his face and taking a sniff. His nostril’s flare as he can detect a subtle undertone to the heavy smell of tea. “What potion was it?” he snarls, jumping to his feet. “Answer me! What was in the tea?”

Belle barely has time to duck as he flings the cup at her. It hits the opposite wall and shatters to pieces, sending drops of its contents splattering across the floor. Rumpelstiltskin is at her side in a blink and he yanks the girl to her feet, his hands squeezing her forearms in an iron grip.

“You little viper! Did you try to poison me?” He’s shouting now, the drops of his spittle landing on her face. His teeth are bared and his features contorted with rage that almost makes him unrecognizable. He shakes her roughly. “Now, don’t make me hit you to get the answers out of you!”

The fury he radiates is palpable, stinging her and she does feel frightened. Several glass containers behind him explode.

“You wouldn’t dare hit me,” she says in a shaky voice and the man grins darkly.

“Oh but I wouldn’t have to. I’ve got _magic_ for it. Now, for the last time, what did you slip in my cup?”

“It was a remembrance potion,” Belle explains and his eyes widen with surprise.

“And, pray tell, why would I need it?”

“Can you remember the last two years of your life? Can you recall exactly where you’ve been, what you have been doing, who you’ve seen?”

“But of course I can,” Rumpelstiltskin snaps irritably but there’s a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “I was in the Castle.”

“Every day for two years? Then where did the greenhouse come from? How do I know you?”

“What are you saying, dearie? That someone erased a few years from my past? Nonsense.” At least he stopped shouting, but he still hadn’t released his clutch on her and Belle’s arms begin to feel numb in his grip.” And even if that were true – which it is not… What of it? Some details may have slipped, yet what does it matter to _you_?” 

Belle reaches for his face, stroking her fingers over his brows to smooth the vertical line of the frown. Taken aback, he lets go of her arms but she doesn’t allow him to step back.

“Because it hurts when you look at me and see a stranger. Because I hate being a _dearie_ to you and seeing you cringe away from my touch. Because I cannot stand the mistrust hidden in your eyes and knowing you constantly expect betrayal. Because I’m sick of not being able to tell you how I feel.”

Rumpelstiltskin pries her hands off disapprovingly and tilts his head to the side.

“What do you feel then, _dearie_ ,” he sneers, flicking his hand in the air dramatically. “Go on, enlighten me. You can hardly offer anything new, I’m afraid, but it’d be bitterly unfair to continue burdening yourself with all those emotions.”

She’s twisting her fingers as if battling with herself and her blue eyes all of a sudden glisten wetly.

“I love you, Rumpelstiltskin. And even if you cannot remember me, I know that you love me too.”

His mouth falls open and he just gapes at her silently for a moment, but when his lips move, he hisses a single word.

“Out.”

“What? Didn’t you hear me? I said…”

“Out!” he shrieks but she smacks his hand when he makes a grab for her to push her out of his lab.

“No! I’m not going anywhere.”

“Fine. I’ll leave for an hour to let you pack but when I return, I do not want to see any traces of your existence in here!”

“Why won’t you believe me?” she pleads and he lets out that manic high-pitched giggle that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Oh I believe it alright!” he says mockingly. “I fully and wholly believe that you’re bloody insane!”

“What do I have to do to make you believe it?”

“Oh I don’t know,” he drawls. “Prove it.”

“But I’ve tried everything!” she exclaims but Rumpelstiltskin shrugs indifferently.

“Tough luck then. Now stop wasting my time and get the hell out of my castle.”

“Wait!” Now it’s Belle’s turn to grab his hand to make him stay. “I think I can do it. Wasn’t there a True Love potion or something you created for Queen Snow White?”

“It gets better and better,” the man shakes her hand off but at least he’s curious enough to turn his face to her. “Now it’s not just a casual fling, it’s _True_ Love.” He crosses his arms and looks at her expectantly. “I don’t know how you found out I’ve done it for the Charmings, but do entertain me further; _make_ the potion.”

“I don’t know how,” Belle says bitterly and the man rolls his eyes.

“Only because I want to witness your failure… You take a hair from each of the lovers, put them together and if it is _twoo_ _wuv_ it will turn into a potion,” he mocks scornfully at her.

“That’s it?” the girl actually has the audacity to grin, relieved that things are quite simple. “Do I need just the hairs?”

“Maybe,” Rumpelstiltskin answers evasively. “Figure it out as you go. Here, I’ll even make my donation.”

He makes a vial appear in his hands and pulls a hair off, sliding it through the thin glass neck until it hits the bottom. He passes it to Belle and she takes a deep breath before yanking a single hair of hers and adding it to his in the vial. Absolutely nothing happens; she shakes the vial for good measure and is disappointed to see that the hair remains just that. In a way – it makes sense; they’ve hugged and touched and slept in the same bed, so their hair probably brushed together but no potion was created. Thus, they need another ingredient that would bind it. But what?

“Kiss me,” she blurts out before she could even finish her train of thought; but her instincts tell her it’s correct. It must be the intent to make the elixir that sets it in motion. “Please,” she adds shyly.

“Oh, dearie, I’m saddened to see that you believe sexual favours can make me change my mind.”

She should have hit him; smacked him right across his green scaled face to wipe off that mixture of scorn and smugness and convey at least a tenth of hurt she feels at his words. She puts the vial on the table and tries to shut everything but love from her mind as she tiptoes to kiss him, closing her eyes tight and hoping a simple press of her dry lips to his can convey all the depth of her feelings and work a miracle.

The man pulls away and wipes his mouth. Belle eyes are pleading, but he looks unmoved.

“See, dearie, I’ve told you that…”

Rumpelstiltskin turns to gesture at the vial but cuts himself off abruptly and his hand freezes in the air. The lifeless strands of hair are replaced by a swirling cloud of glittering gold and Belle is certain she has never seen anything quite as beautiful.

“Impossible,” the man breathes and the girl squeaks as he plucks a hair off her head. “It must be some trick,” he murmurs as he drops it to another vial and adds one of his own. 

Repeating the process is easier for some reason and both of them watch in awe as the hairs twine together and begin glowing, turning into golden half-fluid half-gas with a small burst of light.

“But it can’t be,” the man whispers and drops on the chair heavily. He covers his face with his hands and his shoulders shake; Belle isn’t sure whether he’s crying or laughing. “Just look at me,” he says and his voice is muffled by his hands, “how could _anyone_ love me?”

“Don’t say that,” she puts a hand on his shoulder, feeling the man tense up under her touch. Reluctantly, he turns to her, slowly taking his hands away from his face and interlocking them in his lap.

“You just can’t,” he repeats miserably. “After all I’ve said… after all I’ve done…” He gulps and still avoids her eyes, choosing to stare at his hand. “How could I even forget you?”

“That part remains a mystery to me as well,” Belle admits. “And yes, you do deserve a huge kick, but that’s irrelevant.” She sighs as the man shivers at her words like she truly hit him. He is so lost and confused, her heart swells with tenderness and the need to comfort him; she crouches down, covering his hands with both of hers.

“It’s never been easy for us. Sometimes, I think that the whole world is trying to keep us apart, yet we always find each other, because we have something worth fighting for. I couldn’t care less about it or what anyone thinks. _I_ know that what we have is true. You are the only one who can make me happy, no matter how many times we quarrel.” She pulls him into an embrace and smiles when he holds back with just as much vigour. “I love you, and don’t you dare doubt it again.” 

Rumpelstiltskin sobs into the crook of her neck and her own eyes sting with un-spilled tears. 

“You’re stuck with me forever, I’m afraid. We’ll find a way to bring your memory back.” She can feel him nod in approval and adds sadly. “And if we don’t, we’ll just have to make new memories.”


	17. Discoveries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, no plot there. It'll be back in chapter 19 :(

“Come on, let’s call it an early night,” Belle tugs on his sleeves, making him stand up. He follows her obediently, still trying to process the afternoon’s events.

She closes the bedroom door behind them and lets out a sigh of relief. It’s been a difficult day and she is exhausted from all the anxiety and hopes and fighting. It hurts her, knowing that things didn’t work out as planned but she doesn’t want to dwell on that failure. They are together, that’s what she has to focus on; he’s probably more confused than she is. Perhaps it wasn’t a complete irreversible failure; she could have measured the potion incorrectly, it may require time to work or he simply has to brew it himself. She can worry about all that concoction-business tomorrow.

Belle begins to unlace her bodice, pushing it down impatiently and stepping out of the puddle of skirts.

“What are you doing?” Rumpelstiltskin asks and her mouth curves into a most wicked smile at the way he attempts to be discreet about looking at her body when the girl remains only in her transparent petticoat.

“Getting ready for bed,” she shrugs and lets the remaining fold of her garment slide down her legs. “Do you mind?” She crouches to pick them up, folding the dress over the back of the chair. Rumpelstiltskin sucks in a breath and she would be flattered but then it’s not exactly her most alluring parts he’s looking at.

“I hurt you,” he whispers, his voice detached as if it was a mundane observation and Belle turns her arm to find an ugly, blackened bruise on it.

“It’s nothing…”

“How can you say that? Don’t you see _what_ I am? How could you ever willingly choose to be with a monster?”

“Now stop it, Rumpelstiltskin,” she says sternly or as rigorously as she can manage while being stark naked. “It’s nothing that won’t heal in a matter of days. I love you. Just accept it. Or do I need to cover the entire Castle with bottles of True Love’s potion until it finally sinks in?” Belle climbs under the sheets, patting the space next to her invitingly. The man changes into his nightwear with a snap of his fingers and joins her, scattering to the farthest corner of the bed.

The girl sighs again and edges closer to him until she can feel the heat of his body but still not touch him. His eyes are closed and he looks pained; Rumpelstiltskin wets his lips as if he is about to speak but then changes his mind. She doesn’t want him to brood in silence and curls up closer, closing her eyes when his hand absent-mindedly cradles her head.

“You’re not sleeping,” she accuses him after awhile, and he hums in agreement.

“Neither are you, dearie… Belle,” he corrects himself quickly, remembering that she loathes that title.

“Oh, you know, I’d do everything to lure you to bed,” she quips and the man chuckles half-heartedly as it is too close to the truth.

“Was I your first?” he cannot help wondering; it’s like an itch he needs to scratch. It’s probably the least important and the most inappropriate question to ask at the moment and it burns his tongue to even mention it but he absolutely must know.

“My first what?” It takes her a second to get the meaning. “Oh. Of course. Twice, in fact,” she giggles. “You’ll understand the irony once you remember,” she promises and the silence wraps its thick cloak around them once more. Belle gently, as not to startle him, places a hand on his chest just over his heart, finding the rhythmic thuds calming.

“Rumpelstiltskin?” she whispers; his chest is rising and falling steadily but she knows he’s awake and listening. “Why… why do you think the potion didn’t work?”

He runs his fingers through her hair, coiling it around his index finger and releasing it for the locks to spring back to their usual curl.

“I frankly have no idea,” the man says pensively, “It could have been prepared the wrong way – it’s recommended that the maker alters the required ingredients depending on how vast the damage is. Perhaps, it didn’t affect me because my magical potential is greater than the brewers. Or the potion’s influence was minimized by whichever events preceding the original memory loss.”

“Could you try to prepare the potion yourself?” Belle bites on her lip when he affirms because it’s not the question she really wants to ask. She squirms a little summoning the courage to ask the next one. “But do you even want to? Remember, I mean.”

A thousand doubts and protests flash though his mind but his lips form the answer before he lets them take over.

“Yes.”

Because truly, what could be so terrible about remembering? She came back to him because she loves him, as surreal as it is; had she wanted to be free of him, she had a myriad of opportunities when he told (or screamed at) her to leave.

“Good.”

Belle sighs contently and presses her face into his neck, making a shiver of unwanted excitement shoot down his back as her moist breath fans his skin. Although it still lurks in the back of his mind -  the dark idea of her accepting his previous advances due to vulnerability winning over common sense - today it is different and neither of them can pretend it is a casual meaningless moment of weakness.

“What are you doing?” he asks when he feels the pressure of her parted lips on his throat.

She shifts on the bed, propping herself on her elbow and hovering over him.  “Are we going there again?” Belle asks with a sigh. “I’m kissing you, if you must know,” she explains and ducks down to flick her tongue at the hollow in the base of his throat. Rumpelstiltskin squirms because it both feels ticklish and disturbingly pleasant.

Suddenly, he’s horrified. What if he can never be the man she fell in love with? What if he is just a string of disappointments and nothing changes when his memory returns? Does she compare him now with his previous self?

“I need to…” he makes an attempt to get up but Belle is faster and her hand nudges him back onto the mattress.

“You need to lay back,” she chides, oblivious to the fact that the sheet slipped off her upper body as she moved. Although her nudity doesn’t seem to bother her in the dim bedroom light, Rumpelstiltskin finds that it has quite an effect on him. He’s feasting his eyes on the gentle slope of her shoulders and the soft curves of her breasts, topped with nipples in thefairest shade of pink. He swallows nervously, twisting the sheet in his fingers.

He’s looked at her before but he hasn’t truly _seen_ her. Rumpelstiltskin wonders how she could ever choose to give herself to him willingly, how she can express so much warmth and affection after everything he’s done.

“As I was saying,” Belle continues, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and slowly pulling on the sheet to expose more of his modestly silk-clad body, “I am going to kiss you…” her lips plant a trail of kisses across his collarbones in the opening of his night shirt, “and, possibly lick you as well,” her tongue follows the path of her lips and he groans at the sensation. “I intend to touch as much as I can too,” Belle goes on as her nails scrape the skin of his belly teasingly through the silk.

The self-consciousness and shame of being so excited from the slightest touch only add to his arousal. She moves down his body unhurriedly, her lips covering every inch of the exposed skin – which is not much, damn the clothes. A jolt of aching pleasure of her teeth nipping on the skin near his nipple draws the most embarrassing moan from him. Belle raises her head and smiles at him and it appears her only goal from now on is to keep coaxing whimpers from him.

Belle licks and kisses and touches and his stomach quivers under her attention. Her fingers, lightly curling around his shaft, fill every cell of his body with insistent need and it breaks his impediment spell. Rumpelstiltskin pulls her upwards, his hand sliding down her smooth back and grabbing onto her rear, holding herflush against him as he kisses her hard. She grinds against him and he groans in appreciation, guiding her to thrust faster and hating every curved fibre of the fabric that prevents skin to skin contact where he wants it most. His left hand reaches lower, pressing a slender finger at her opening and groaning at the feel of already dampening flesh.

He doesn’t want it to be over quickly and slowly runs his palms along her back, pressing a fingertip to each vertebrae. She’s so fragile and so strong; he knows he doesn’t deserve her but he will try his best.

“Come here,” he asks huskily with his hands on her waist and guides the girl up and forward while sliding to the foot of the bed himself.

“What are you..?” the question is superfluous when she finds herself kneeling over his face.

Belle feels a surge of heat rush to her lower abdomen and she grips onto the headboard, closing her eyes and shaking with anticipation at the raw obscenity of what he’s about to do. She ceases breathing when Rumpelstiltskin’s hands cup her buttocks and he brings her closer to his face.

The first warm touch of his lips make her jerk with surprise but he’s holding her firmly in place. Belle arches her back, keening when his hot tongue traces the shape of her labia. He is so soft and gentle, slowly exploring her with his mouth as she quivers on top of him, digging her nails in the polished wood for support as her legs refuse to cooperate.

Rumpelstiltskin groans when he swipes his tongue between her folds, really tasting her for the first time. She’s salty-sweet, musky and earthy and he knows he’s addicted to her taste. He laps at her hungrily, drawing more moisture as she begins to rock back and forth slightly and the delicious noises she makes shoot through his body straight to his groin. Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t know who’s the one receiving the pleasure here; he doesn’t suppress the grunts of enjoyment and wicked feral glee he feels with her thighs squeezing his head and his face covered in her juices.

His lips close around her clit as he begins to suck lightly; he wants her to cum on his tongue, hot and wet and screaming in ecstasy. Rumpelstiltskin has to reach down and squeeze the base of his cock hard to distract himself, because he is so wound up he can hold back only for so long. Her clitoris swells and lightly throbs under the ministration and her body tenses up, her breath hitched and the small of her back covered in perspiration. Her mouth forms a silent O in wonder as the whirl of effortless pleasure swipes through her. Even when her body spasms, she is mindful of his comfort, which is a shame; if he had to go, he’d gladly do it with his head buried between her thighs.

“Again?” he drawls, his voice gruff. Although Belle shakes her head in refusal, her body has a mind of its own and arches into the caress when he kisses from the inside of her silky thigh up to her core.

With her initial hunger sated, Rumpelstiltskin takes time to tease her, trying to press his tongue past the tight ring of muscles at her opening and circling her clit unhurriedly.

Belle is hoarse by the time she screams with the second orgasm rocking her body and collapses on the bed next to him positively boneless. Rumpelstiltskin rips his night shirtoff, tossing it onto the floor. He wipes his face, using the collected juices as lubricant for roughly stroking his cock. He knows he won’t last but he desperately wants to be inside her even for a brief moment.

Moving to the foot of the bed and tucking his legs under himself, the man reaches for Belle’s ankles, raising them to kiss them in turn before hooking her right leg over his shoulder. He aligns their bodies and sinks into her tight heat. Belle’s fingers dig into his upper arms and he moves carefully; the position allows him to slide deep, deeper than he has ever been.

She is positively sinful, sprawled under him with flushed cheeks and rumpled hair, and the pleasure is nearly unbearable. All too soon he can feel his muscles tighten and he cums, thick and deep inside her.

They lay side to side not quite touching, recovering and allowing their bodies to cool down. They could probably use a good wash but then Belle reaches out for his hand and he’s perfectly content to be where he is, holding her small palm and drawing circles with his thumb on the back of her hand.


	18. Clean

Stirring awake in the warm circle of his arms feels so good that Belle doesn’t want to open her eyes.

“I know you’re not asleep,” Rumpelstiltskin chuckles softy and she rolls onto her side to face him. The man sighs, grateful for the opportunity to snatch his arm back and flexes his fingers. She watches him wince at the sensation of his fingers being prickled with myriad tiny needles when the blood rushes back into his digits.

“How do you know I’m not?”

“You are talking to me,” he points out reasonably, “ _that_ gave you away.”

She giggles and stretches with a sigh. She hasn’t had the chance to wake up next to him until now – he would usually be up and about – and she is grateful for the change. Rumpelstiltskin’s smile is shy and he is a bit tense - as if by staying he has crossed some boundaries and she hates to see him so uncertain. Perhaps the only reason he remains in bed was that she has mistaken his arm for a suitable replacement for a pillow. She reaches up to brush his unruly hair from his face and leans over, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Good morning,” she manages to say before he turns his head and captures her lips for a deeper kiss, groaning contently when her tongue slides into his mouth. His hand strokes along her side, resting on the curve of her hip but Belle gently pushes him away.

“I do need a bath if you wish to continue,” she explains to his frowning face and he looks relieved when he grasps the nature of her rejection.

“Your wish is my command.”  Rumpelstiltskin snaps his fingers and a rather impressive steaming copper bath materializes next to the window.

“Really? In the bedroom?” She raises her eyebrows at the unnecessary display of magic but the man shrugs it off.

“I spared you the trouble of dressing up and going downstairs,” he says smugly.

Fair enough. Belle throws her legs over the edge of the bed, trying to remember where she discarded her pins the day before. She can feel his eyes on her back as she twists and pins her hair up and walks to the tub, keeping her back straight and fighting the ridiculous urge to cover her behind. He has seen her every way possible by now, so it hardly matters.

The water is a bit hotter than the girl is used to and she closes her eyes with pleasure, leaning back against the polished metal. She can hear Rumpelstiltskin fumble in bed followed by his quick approaching steps.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he warns and then she feels the water move around her as he places his leg in the tub with a splash. Belle grips the edges of the tub with her hands and draws her legs to her chest to allow him some room, but keeps her eyes obediently shut. “Alright, you can look now.”

“Was it your plan from the very beginning?” Belle asks as he straightens her legs and puts her feet against his stomach.

“Perhaps,” he replies cagily, stroking the protruding bones in her ankles with his thumbs. “What fun is it when I can watch but not touch?”

The feel of his hands on her skin under the water is different; more slippery and somewhat muffled by it. Where she would expect to feel the heat of his touch, now there is the added caress of swaying water.

He cradles her left foot in both hands, raising it over the water and summoning the soap out of nowhere (which is most likely true) to lather his hands. He slides his knuckles up the arch of her foot, applying just enough pressure for it not to tickle but still making her toes curl down instinctively. Belle bites her lip to keep herself from smiling at his concentrated look as he gradually works his way up to her ankle and rubs the front of her foot. She’s probably cleaner than she’s ever been but Belle finds she quite enjoys the feel of his clever fingers gliding on her skin, pressing, stroking and rubbing her in the most delicious way. Rumpelstiltskin repeats the process on the other foot just as thoroughly, sliding his fingers between her toes and making her giggle. The combined soothing caress of the water and his hands successfully work her towards a blissful state of contentment with not a single coherent thought, until discovering they have quite the opposite effect on him.

As Rumpelstiltskin rinses her right leg, she shifts a little in the tub, bumping the outer ridge of her left foot against something stiff and the girl blushes a violent scarlet at the realization of what exactly she has just touched. Before she can mutter an awkward apology, his hand wraps around her ankle, capturing his hardness between her sole and his stomach. She gasps as the man lowers his head and flicks his tongue against her big toe, causing her to jerk and him to groan at the accidental stroke against his shaft.

“W-what did you do that for?” Belle stutters, watching in shock as his rough pink tongue slithers between her toes. It’s ticklish but at the same time guiltily enjoyable.

“Making sure you’re properly clean,” he sneers, covering her skin in small licks and nibbles.

His soft lips are torturously slow and by the time he bracelets her ankle with kisses, Belle is squirming impatiently. She’s too cautious about hurting him and instead of pressing her foot against his cock, rubs it over the shaft lightly, grinning as it throbs under her ministrations.

“Come here.” His voice is thick with desire and he quickly pulls her forward and around, holding her flush against him.  His breath is hot and moist against her temple as he presses a brief kiss to it. His engorged cock is sandwiched between their bodies, pressing against her lower back uncomfortably and Belle expects his hands to dive between her legs, bringing her off quickly and insistently before he asks for the same in return. Rumpelstiltskin however picks up the bar of soap and works it to a fine foam. He places his palms under her small breasts, unhurriedly covering her skin in lather and avoiding any suggestive touching.

Belle arches against him, turning her head and seeking his lips as he slowly glides his hands over her chest, collarbones and upper arms. She is covered in soapy stains, her darkened nipples providing a contrast against the white of her skin and the foam. She aches, her belly pulsing with need for the _right_ touch, for a determined dab of his fingers against her sensitive slit.  Rumpelstiltskin cups water in his hands, washing off the soap just as meticulously as he lathered her up.

The girl’s patience runs short and she reaches behind with her hand, cupping the back of his head and craning her neck to coax him into an insistent kiss, putting into it every ounce of his desire and eagerness. Belle whimpers as his thumbs finally circle her nipples, his hands roughly kneading her breasts.

She tightens her hand in his hair, feeling like she could reach her peak from this alone – from the teasing strokes of his tongue invading her mouth and the slippery dance of his palms on her chest. Belle grasps his right hand and guides it under water, pressing it flat against her crotch. His fingers spread her delicately, pushing at her entrance, but the water washes off most of her arousal. Rumpelstiltskin covers her mound, the surge of magic turning his fingertips cold for a second. Suddenly, her perception of touch is heightened; each wiggle and stroke of his fingers is enhanced. She enjoys his touch, magic or not, but she wishes she was able to feel him in turn. Belle turns around to kiss him before she stands up to step out of the tub.

“Bed?” she offers, stretching her arm out.

“Yes. But turn around.” Well, isn’t that a ridiculous request while she is standing there naked as a newborn, dripping water on thick carpet.

“Not a chance.” Belle would cross her arms but considering her nudity, the gesture would fail to prove her point.

If she didn’t know better, she would believe he was blushing – or as close to it as he gets. Rumpelstiltskin grips the edges of the tub, pulling himself upwards under her blunt stare. She doesn’t know why he is always so ashamed of himself; granted, he is not particularly handsome by common standards but there is a hidden strength in his lean body that is pleasing to the eye. Even now he hunches a little as if to show as little of himself as possible and she almost feels bad for his discomfort. Almost, because she doesn’t see his face; the girl cannot divert her eyes from his cock, thick and hard, swaying a little from the impact of his movement. Mesmerized, she leans forwards a little and licks a drop of water from his taut stomach.

“Belle!” he exclaims, shocked and embarrassed as his prick twitches and lightly smacks the side of her face. She almost giggles but bites her lip to spare his ego. She gently wraps her fingers around the base of his shaft, pulling down to expose the head of his cock.

“W-what are you…” the man trails off as a warm puff of her breath makes him shiver in anticipation. He wants her to do it but also dreads it.

“Just let me,” she says and then her lips kiss the tip lightly as she takes a small lick across the glans.

“Belle…” He chokes on her name as if it pains him and grips onto her shoulders for balance. She opens her mouth wider, sealing her lips around her crown as simultaneously her hand moves up. He tastes like water and clean skin and she swirls her tongue around the spongy head as she strokes him with her hand. She sucks a little, applying more pressure with her fingers and the sounds he makes excites her even more than the sudden splash of his taste on her tongue.

Belle tries to take more of him in, bobbing her head on his shaft but keeping her fist wrapped around him to prevent herself from going too deep too fast and gagging. His cock throbs in her hand, impossibly hard and hot in her grip. She flicks her tongue around the head, pushing it into the small slit on top and groaning at the salty bitterness of him.

“Belle, I cannot… stop,” he pleads, softly shoving her away.

Reluctantly, she takes her mouth off him; there is a small string of clear precum connecting his cock with her pink lips and Rumpelstiltskin makes an undignified whimper and quickly brushes it away with his thumb, bending down to hungrily suck on her bottom lip. He _is_ good at multitasking because he effectively drives her mad with want with just his kisses as he gets out of the tub, cupping her rear and pressing her flush against his body.

He maneuvers her back to bed without so much as breaking the kiss or looking where they are going; Belle simply lies down, supported by his strong arms, when she can feel the mattress hit the back of her knees. The sheet clings to her wet back unpleasantly but she pays little mind to it, engrossed in the feel of his arms around her, his passionate kisses and the raw need for her.

His cock nudges the inner side of her hip and she raises her legs, hooking them up behind him. He breaks the kiss to look down and align them, resting his forehead against hers ashe carefully sinks in. He is so gentle, so considerate that her heart aches with tenderness and she can feel the tears tingle in her eyes; she blinks them away furiously, not wanting to agitate him with an uncalled emotional outburst. Belle tries to concentrate on the sweet feel of being stretched, on how his breath hitches when his full length is buried in her, how tense the muscles of his back are when he begins to move. She holds him close, her arms and legs around him tight, but still wishes she could be closer.

She digs her heels into the small of his back, gasping when he snaps his hips forward sharply and hits that sweet spot deep inside that makes her toes curl in pleasure.  “Harder,” she begs and he obliges, grunting as he slams into her forcefully. She digs her nails into his back as Rumpelstiltskin’s teeth sink into her shoulder, his tongue laving her skin and tracing the circle of uneven marks he left. She clenches around him, trying to keep him inside but knowing it will be over soon. Belle presses a hand between their bodies and the man raises over her, supporting his weight on his straightened arms as he watches her pinch and roll her clit between her fingers as he drives himself inside her most roughly.

 The pleasure is sharp and exquisite and he follows her as soon as her body begins to spasm, an added wetness between her legs and his strained moan indicating he has also reached his peak. Rumpelstiltskin rolls them both over to the side and the girl hooks her leg over him, wanting to keep him inside for as long as possible.

“We should get up,” he prompts, drawing lazy circles on her back. “We’ve got work to do.”

“And what is it?” Belle sighs and burrows her hand in the crook of his neck. “Do we really have to do something?” she mumbles and he smiles at the movement of her lips as they tickle his skin.

“As a matter of fact, we do. I’ve got a potion to brew and I do not trust you to be alone for too long,” he explains. “You could either get yourself in trouble or cause trouble, which are equally unacceptable.”

She humphs scoffingly but doesn’t move.

“I love you,” she whispers and hugs him tighter.

“I…” he could pretend he hasn’t heard her of course or say it back but his tongue is glued to his pallet. He loves her, of course he does – there is tangible proof of that after all – but he cannot bring himself to say it. It’s so simple, just three small words; there is nothing magical or special in them, but they fill him with dread. Love is a weakness, he used to say, loves makes you sick with the burden of responsibility. Whether it’s confusion from where the feeling is coming from or the novelty of having someone, his lips refuse those short but complicated words. When the silence stretches, he begins to panic. Belle wants him to say it and his stomach lurches. He cannot, cannot say them. What if she leaves if he doesn’t? What if he utters them and they sound forced and fake and she leaves anyways? His heart is racing and he swallows heavily. He’s a master of twisting words, that’s what he is famous for; since when has a common sentence presented an obstacle to the eloquent Dark One?

“I…” he tries again, but she puts a finger to his lips, cutting his off and to his own disgust, he feels relieved.

“It’s alright. I know.”

She gives him a peck and gets out of bed. She is so kind and understanding, accepting him for the flawed shallow creature he is. Belle smiles but there is pain in her eyes; the hurt she attempts to hide but doesn’t quite succeed and he feels like a complete bastard. Just three words, not quite a lie but not quite the truth for him either, but he could have avoided the damage - or caused an even bigger disappointment.

He dresses with magic and reaches for her hand, giving her small palm a squeeze as he leads her along the twisting corridor to his turret. Rumpelstiltskin wants to tell her everything will be alright, surely he will remember her – their past – and soon and everything will make sense again. He hopes the potion will work and silently vows that he will do whatever it takes to never be the reason for her hurting again.


	19. Mad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now before there is another ramble on how I abuse characters and go into sensitive subjects on Facebook, note that mentions of certain things and practices might be unpleasant for some; personally, I don't find them to be disturbing but... *shrug*

“Do you need my help?” Belle asks, resting her chin on her hands as she watches Rumpelstiltskin move around his lab, picking up jars and vials and lining them up on the table.

“No,” he answers sharply. “It is very important that you do not interfere.”

“Why did you want me here then?” she tries to ignore his indifference as the man seems to be absorbed in his task, measuring three drops of some clear foul-smelling liquid into a silver teaspoon and dumping it into the cauldron.

“I… well,” he glances at her in confusion as if he has forgotten why he required her presence. “I just thought it would be…” he trails off vaguely gesturing around and returns to his potion. “You don’t have to be here,” he murmurs and she sighs.

Belle doesn’t attempt to speak again but stays; the way he moves around the cauldron, stirring, smelling and adding things to it resembles some kind of ritual dance and she is content to just observe. The sorcerer extinguishes the fire and clasps his hands together, the tips of his clawed fingers resting under his chin.

“It’s ready,” he announces and she looks at him surprised.

“Doesn’t it have to simmer or at least cool down?”

“I suppose I could leave it till the full moon and drink it stark naked at a crossroad precisely at midnight, but don’t you think it’s a bit excessive?”

Belle shrugs because she actually expected something similar; surely several hours are not enough to brew anything as complex. Rumpelstiltskin summons a goblet – she should really ask him how he does it; is there a room someplace in the castle, full of objects he deems necessary at one point? He carefully pours the steaming potion into the goblet. The girl’s heartbeat quickens as she eyes the thin bluish smoke rising over the rim and he catches her stare, clearing his throat.

“To you,” he toasts and blows on the liquid before pressing the cup to his lips.

Belle watches him take a large gulp, his Adam’s apple moving jerkily, and holds her breath. The man drains the full goblet for good measure, shutting his eyes and his hands tighten on the stem of it. There is a second of silence and then he opens his eyes.

“Damn it!” he curses, flinging the empty ornate goblet at the wall and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in distaste. “I’ll try again,” he says more calmly. “There is something I’m missing; the balance is wrong or it’s not potent enough. Don’t wait up this time; I think it’ll take longer.”

“Rumpelstiltskin,” she calls, but he pays her no mind.

“Maybe if I add an extra pinch of calendula and…”

“Rumpelstiltskin!”

“…and then two stirs clockwise instead of three and an extra one counter clockwise…”

Belle walks around the table, tugging on his sleeve and making him stop abruptly in the middle of his monologue.

“Yes? What is it, I’m busy.”

“How long do you intend to do it for?” she asks and he shrugs the question off, clicking his tongue in irritation.

“Until I succeed, of course. Now, as I was saying…”

“You intend to stay here and keep trying?”

“Yes, yes! Isn’t that obvious?”

“Don’t,” she says gently and his eyes widen. “I want to be with you and not have you locked in here, poisoning yourself time after time, blindly searching for the right combination of ingredients.”

“But Belle,” he protests and she puts a fingers to his lips, cutting him short. Deep down she knew that despite her hopes, the potion wouldn’t work; whether it’s the irony of fate or her luck ran out, she thinks that, perhaps, it all is not worth fighting for. They are together and he does love her, even if some stupid superstition holds him back from saying it.

“I know,” she offers simply, covering his hand with hers. “I’ll learn to accept that my memories are my own and I can no longer share them with you.”

“What did you say?” he gasps and Belle slowly repeats her last sentence, while a huge grin breaks on his face. “But of course,” he chirps and involuntarily makes his trilling little giggle, practically bouncing with excitement. “Share your memories. Oh why haven’t I thought of it before!”

He darts to his table, pulling out a slip of parchment and a quill. He dips the tip into the ink jar quickly, leaving a blot on the wooden surface in his carelessness and scribbles several words on the parchment. Curious, Belle approaches the desk, leaning over to see him scroll “ _Urgent. See me in 5 minutes_ ” before the little piece vanishes without a trace.

“Come on. We’re having a guest arrive soon,” he announces merrily and heads to the exit with an extra spring in his step. He turns to glance over his shoulder and seeing that she’s still standing where she was, orders her to keep up.

“I don’t understand,” Belle huffs as she hurries down the stairs, “who is coming and why?”

Rumpelstiltskin stops dead in his tracks and the girl nearly collides into him.

“I do not need to bother with whatever is blocking my memories,” he turns to explain, all large eyes and giddiness. “You simply need to share yours with me.”

The notion is bizarre yet if he can have anything he desires the snap of his fingers, getting inside one’s head is not as absurd or impossible as it appears at first.

“So you’ve sent a message to someone who can help us with it?” she guesses as they resume their walk.

“Precisely.”

“Is that person a friend of yours?”

“You could say so for lack of a better word,” the man offers. “He and I have a long history of beneficial partnership.”

“But how will he get here so fast?”

“Just wait and see, my dear,” the man replies and pushes the doors to the great hall open. Belle senses that there is something different about the room but she cannot quite put her finger on what it is. Then, following Rumpelstiltskin’s gaze, she spots a large black top hat on the carpet.

“What..?” she begins to say while the thing starts spinning, creating a purple whirlwind in the middle of the floor. The magic mist thickens, sending off occasional sparks and Rumpelstiltskin snorts.

“Peacock,” he sneers, watching the hat. “Always arriving with a show.”

Belle bites the tip of her tongue to hold back a smile; she could name another sorcerer who is all about showing off but that is hardly wise. Finally, a figure appears amidst the swaying purple haze and a man steps out of the top hat, the whirlwind disappearing just as swiftly as it began.

“Was that bumpy ride even necessary, you whimsical old thing?” the stranger inquires, bending to pick up the hat and brushing a non-existent speck of dust off the brim and downing it on his head.

“As a matter of fact yes,” Rumpelstiltskin grunts but the insolent man interrupts him.

“Oh not you, you self-centred geezer. I was talking to Betsy.” The man’s steely eyes stop on Belle and he straightens, pushing his shoulders back and flicking his cravat to puff it up. “Ooooh, who is this young lady?” The visitor puts his left arm behind his back, bowing to her with practiced ease and reaching to place a kiss on her hand. “Enchanted, I truly am. Your beauty is remarkable, I must say, I have never…”

Belle blushes at the shower of complements and the man still gently holds her hand in his large palm.

“None of that, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin hisses, not particularly amused.

“Does he call you that as well, love?” the stranger winks at Belle, making her blush further at the endearment and the sorcerer grunts again.

“Hatter, I warn you…” he drawls but the hatter in question pays him little mind.

“Jefferson, at your service, love.” He lets go of her hand and his warm fingers suddenly press to her temples. “Oh you are marvellous,” he praises, softly sliding his fingertips over her skull. “It would be an honour to hat your perfect little head.” Confused, Belle doesn’t know if she ought to push him away and tries to turn her head to Rumpelstiltskin for help, but the hatter keeps her firmly in place, studying the crown of her head with quick clever fingers. “What shall it be, sweetheart? Bonnet, chaperon, slouch?” he speaks faster and faster, blurting the words out until they blend together and his voice gets pitched with excitement. “Porkpie, bowler, fez, stetson…”

“Hatter,” Rumpelstiltskin calls out warningly but the man goes on.

“Tricorne! Oh, oh a beret! No, wait, how about…”

“Hatter!” the sorcerer shouts and Jefferson blinks several times, dropping his hands to the side.

“Sorry, love, got a bit carried away. So, what were we talking about?”

“Betsy,” she prompts.

“Right, right. Not only are you beautiful but you’ve got superb skills at keeping a conversation, love.”

Belle chuckles at this open flattery but Jefferson stops at that. It appears he cannot hold a thought for too long when he’s interrupted, so Belle tries again.

“Is it your friend? Will she be coming too?”

“She already is here!” he beams at her, taking the top hat off himself and flipping it over several times. “Betsy, my oldest and dearest friend,” he says proudly before returning it to its place on his head.

He has some strange sort of charm; the kind of zealous energy he radiates combined with serious grey eyes make it impossible not to warm to him.

“Why did you choose this name?” Belle asks, not a bit surprised he hasn’t asked for her own.

“Because that’s what old things are called,” he explains slowly as if it was obvious but the mild annoyance rapidly shifts to amusement. “Aren’t they, Betsy?” he turns to Rumpelstiltskin who crossed his arms in front of him and gives him a scornful look from beneath his brow.

“Ha-ha. Good to know nothing has changed, Jefferson.”

“Sad news for you, you grumpy lizard; I’m afraid you still haven’t acquired the tiniest bit of humour!” the hatter chirps and Belle smiles; despite their verbal skirmish it’s obvious they are on good terms even if neither will admit to it.

“Can we talk about my offer if you’re done practicing your wits?” Rumpelstiltskin growls but the hatter isn’t a bit disturbed by the cool welcome. He taps his finger on his chin in thought and then stares at Belle, not actually seeing her with his eyes glossy and his mind far away.

“No,” he decides and then pouts. “I do not talk about offers in places where I am not offered tea.”

Rumpelstiltskin rolls his eyes and before he snaps at their guest, Belle links her arm through Jefferson’s and leads him to the table.

“What a lovely cup,” he exclaims, wrapping both hands around white and blue china and raising it to his eyes, turning it around to examine the delicate pattern of leaves and flowers. Then he throws it over his shoulder and Belle rushes to catch the cup before it hits the floor. Sighing, she puts it back onto the table as Rumpelstiltskin conjures a pot of steaming tea. The hatter beckons her close with his finger and almost presses his lips to her ear.

“They call me mad, you know,” he whispers confidingly and the girl shivers a little at those words.

“I wonder why,” Rumpelstiltskin snorts from across the table; he had to use magic to hear them and Belle is unsettled by it. Perhaps she has misunderstood him and the man doesn’t trust Jefferson.

“No idea,” the hatter says sincerely. “But be mindful that brilliance and insanity often walk hand in hand.” He slams his fist on the table and the girl jumps. “Tea, where’s tea? You promised me tea, old man. Green, black, white, oolong, herbal? Braided, in pearls, leaves, crushed to dust?”

“Hatter, you shall drink whatever you are served,” Rumpelstiltskin cuts him off and the hatter nods gravely.

“Indeed. I beg my pardon; that was extremely rude of me.”

"Honey?" offers Belle and Jefferson nods but grabs her wrist firmly as soon as the spoon hovers over the  tea cup.

"What are you _doing_?" he shouts. "Don't you know that if you put honey in your tea on Tuesday it will turn it into the deadliest of venoms?"

"Really, Belle, how could you’ve forgotten?" Rumpelstiltskin teases and lifts his hand to cover the goofy grin on his face. "Poor thing, you got all confused!"

The girl shoots him an undignified look from beneath the lashes and seriously reconsiders playing a host with the hatter, who nods gravely at the sorcerer's words, taking them in all good faith.

"My, my," Jefferson drawls, switching his attention to the wrist of hers he's still holding and strokes his thumb across her smooth skin. "What a gorgeous hand you've got! Is the other one like that too? I need to make you a pair of gloves to go with your new hat, they will be glorious. Now, I'm thinking tender lamb skin would..."

"Jefferson, will you finally concentrate?"

The man drops her hand as his head turns to Rumpelstiltskin.

"What? Oh yes, right," he takes a sip of the tea, sloshing it around his mouth before swallowing. "Hell, this is an excellent brew, old friend!" He slams the cup back onto the saucer, making the china click loudly and spilling the tea all over the place. "Tick-tock, business talk," he sings and Belle scoots away from the eccentric man, firmly convinced she should have chosen to sit at Rumpelstiltskin's side. "So, what is it you want?"

"A hat that..."

"Wait, what?" Jefferson put his hand up, cutting the man off and wrinkles his nose in distaste. "A hat? I do not recommend it. With that nose of yours and the complexion like that..."

"Do you ever run out of jokes about my age and looks, dearie?" he asks acidly and the hatter picks the cup up again, swashing the fluid around before dipping his finger in to stir his tea. The liquid must be hot but his face doesn't let on sign any discomfort.

"Nope," he says simply popping his finger into his mouth and Rumpelstiltskin sighs.

"Thought so. Anyways, I need a hat that would enable me to access Belle's memories."

Jefferson shifts on the chair, leaning forward until he's perched on the edge and plants the cup between his knees.

"Swap the memories?"

"Not, not that. Simply be able to see what she cares to show."

The hatter throws his head back and laughs. He roars with deep rich laugher and Rumpelstiltskin patiently waits.

"Oh that's precious. You realize how ridiculous it sounds? Mess with the memories, har har," he wipes the tears that gather in the corner of his eyes. "Impossible."

"Mhmm," the sorcerer consents, locking his fingers and staring at their visitor intently. "So will you do it?"

"Of course," the hatter says. "I do the impossible, I love the impossible. But if your head explodes, there will be no refunds."

"What? No! You're joking," Belle gasps and turns her head from Jefferson to Rumpelstiltskin. "Please say it was a bad joke!"

"But of course it was, love," the hatter says, patting her on her shoulder. "I haven't had a head bursting accident in over half a century."

"Nothing will happen to me, Belle, don’t look so pale."

"Yes, love, there is nothing to worry about. He could use a different head, if you ask me."

"Then it's a good thing she didn't," the sorcerer snaps. "How quickly can it be done?"

"Not in a minute, apparently. Keep in mind that pretty little thing has to sew it. Can you do it, love? Have those delicate fingers ever held a needle?" He reaches for her hand but she pulls her arm away.

"I can sew, thank you very much," she says a bit more grudgingly than intended but he smiles at her.

"I knew you did, you perfectly scrumptious..."

"Hatter!"

"Alright, _alright_ , you jealous imp."

"I suppose you know where I keep my gold, don't you?"

Jefferson unhurriedly finishes his tea, smacking his lips and carefully placing the cup on the table. He frowns and turns it to the other side until he is satisfied with the angle of the handle and wipes the wet spots from the rim.

"Actually, I just might ask for something a bit more special than the money this time," he offers and Rumpelstiltskin waves his hand in the air, encouraging him to go on. "I need a body."

"What kind of body?"

"Oh, doesn't matter. Preferably fresh."

Belle feels like her eyes will bulge out of her forehead.

"What?" she squeaks weakly.

"I need a body, little love," Jefferson explains. "Someone dead, deader than dead - corpse, if you please, but that’s a foul word."

"It's not for a head transplant experiment again, is it?" Rumpelstiltskin wonders cautiously.

"Ugh I'm done with those at the moment," the hatter says and digs his fingers behind his cravat, tugging and loosening the fabric. "The last time went... not as well as I had hoped."

"Alright then," Rumpelstiltskin clasps his hands and giggles. "A body you shall have. It’s a deal."

"No!" Belle shouts, horrified. Is she really sitting in the room with two men negotiating a provision of cadaver for some sick purposes of a mad man? “You aren’t going to murder anyone, are you?" gasped Belle.

"Who mentioned a word of murder, my sweet?" Rumpelstiltskin asks, voice puzzled and it makes her feel silly all of a sudden. Has she misunderstood them?

"B-but you said," she stutters, turning to Jefferson, "you said you needed a dead man."

"I do, love, I do."

"Why?" she presses, feeling her stomach turn; she probably won't like the answer and the girl is grateful she had nothing to eat as the bile rises to her throat.

"Hat math. Two can enter and only two can leave. Or three. No matter. The rule is that when a number of people enters the hat, the same number must return. Not necessarily the same people, of course. Simple as that, albeit it always proves tricky." Belle frowns and he strokes her cheek.

“But why can’t you take someone with you?”

"Would you want me to take you to Wonderland, love? I am afraid I'd have to leave you there as I intend to come back with someone dear to me. But it is so very pretty in there, you’d be delighted."

"She is absolutely not going anywhere, hatter!" Rumpelstiltskin fumes and the corners of Jefferson's mouth droop. "And as to your concerns, sweetheart, if I can turn someone into a snail, I can transfigure any object into a person. Dead is dead, whether it had been alive before or not. I’ll give you a gollum, hatter, and you shall provide me with the hat I need."

"Hmmm," Jefferson hums, pulling the brim of his top hat down to his eyes. "I am not so sure a gollum will trick Betsy. She is a spunky thing, I tell you. Won't take crap, only the real deal."

"Great," the sorcerer mumbles. "Do you honestly think I have a supply of bodies in my broom closet?"

"Funny, I have never imagined you owned a broom closet."

"Jefferson, you are not a bit amusing. Where the hell will I find you a body? It's not like people die in the Enchanted Forest every day. Will a cow do or something?"

"Abso-bloody-lutely not. Do you think hat magic is cheap hocus-pocus? No sir I find this notion outraging; it’s complex, tender and _alive_. Where and how you get the body is not my problem, is it? If I could find a dead man myself, I'd do it, but here I am and since it's your deal, you figure everything out, or I am out of here."

“Why can’t you negotiate with someone? I mean, you say Wonderland is nice, I do not see why it would be difficult to find someone willing to settle there.”

“Fair enough, except that the local queen has developed a nasty habit of ripping people’s hearts out. Where she learnt it from remains a mystery to me,” he says airily.

Rumpelstiltskin covers his face with his hands.

"I so didn't want to do it, but it looks like we need to pay a visit to another old acquaintance."

"That’s more like it," Jefferson nods approvingly and leans back, balancing only on two legs of the chair. Rumpelstiltskin fights the urge to call his magic and send the arrogant fob tumbling backwards. "I've missed that sleazy bastard. Or was it someone else? I don't remember. We are going to have a huge tea party," he giggles. "Lovely!"

"Will you two _please_ stop talking in riddles and explain it to me? Who is the man you mentioned?"

"The doctor," Jefferson says.

"Bloody butcher and charlatan," Rumpelstiltskin corrects him and snaps his fingers.

"Doctor? Doctor who?"

"Victor von Frankenstein, doctor of medicine, if you please," a heavily-accented deep voice responds and Belle turns abruptly to see a tall man in odd clothes wearing a pair of elongated shady glasses. He gives her as much as a sliding glance, bowing slightly and acknowledging her presence with a quick "Miss" and an even swifter "Sir Jefferson" muttered to the hatter.

The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing pale thin arms, covered with ginger hair. He is awkward-looking, as if he is still an adolescence trying to figure out how to behave in the company of wise grown men. His back is impossibly straight though and his serious face betrays a proud man.

"Must you do it each time, necromancer? I admit I would appreciate a note of warning. You've pulled me out in the middle of a phenomenal operation."

"Yes, yes, that's all very interesting," the man waves his hand in the air dismissively, not troubled by the doctor's grievances. "I am not a necromancer, Frankenstein, how many times have I told you that? Besides, we need your services."

"Your magic has failed you, wizard, and you have reverted to science?" the doctor sneers, immensely pleased with himself.

"Keep on dreaming, you insolent excuse for a medic. Remind me again, what did they expel you for?" Victor's face reddens rapidly and his hands curl into fists.

"Gentlemen and reptiles, please be civil," Jefferson stands up and spreads his arms and surprisingly it works; both men fall silent. "You are a brilliant scientist, you're an excellent sorcerer and I'm purely a genius better than both of you combined. Can we please lay this dispute to rest?" Belle snickers at the statement but surprisingly they do stop arguing. "Thank you!" Jefferson winks at her and straightens his cuffs meticulously. "Now, as Rumple was saying..."

"As I was saying, _doctor,_ we need your assistance with a sensitive issue."

"What's in it for me?" Victor asks quickly.

"If my memory doesn't fail me," Belle scowls at the choice of words, "you haven't said no to a fat purse of gold last time."

"So I shan't do it today. Very well, then," the man lowers himself onto the chair and crosses his legs. "What am I required to do?"

"Nothing, absolutely nothing," Jefferson says delightfully, filling the cup he drank from with a fresh serving of tea and pushing it towards the doctor, who eyes it suspiciously but doesn't make any effort to touch it. "We need a body."

"Human body?" Victor repeats and the man nods enthusiastically almost losing his top hat.

"Yep; a tiny-teeny ikle body."

"You do realize that i don't run a morgue?"

"But you do cut them up," Rumpelstiltskin points out. "It happens that the only 'supplier' we agreed on was you."

"I am not a delivery boy," he snarls.

"Of course not, you are an astonishingly outstanding gem of the independent medical research in both realms!" Belle thinks Jefferson is pushing it too far but the doctor's chest swells with pride and his mouth even curls into a shy smile.

"Then no more questions will be asked," he says haughtily and the hatter drapes his hand around the other man's shoulder casually.

"Oh Victor, you jolly old fellow, that is why we love you so much." The doctor shakes his arm off himself only to find his hair ruffled with it. "No time wasted on superfluous questions or fruitless disputes on morality."

"That's quite enough, Jefferson, thank you," Rumpelstiltskin interferes.

“Tea, Victor? Why aren’t you drinking it?” the hatter asks, earning himself a spiteful glare.

“Because there is no need to socialize. Shall we go, gentlemen?”

“Yes,” Rumpelstiltskin consents. “I just heed an extra moment.”

“While the doctor mumbles something about weaknesses and pathetic sentiment under his breath, Jefferson takes the top hat off, throwing it into the floor where it begins to swirl and form another whirlwind.

“I’ll keep it open for you, but don’t take too long,” Jefferson warns and he steps into the purple mist, disappearing after the doctor.

 “Can’t I go?” Belle asks resentfully and Rumpelstiltskin gives her an apologetic smile.

“Hat math. Three come in and three must return,” he reminds her and pulls the girl in a clumsy embrace. “Besides, you’d not like that place.”

“You could transfer us there with magic.”

“I couldn’t. The rules of that realm are different from what you know here; it is a dark, bleak world with very little magic in it and I would be nearly powerless there.”

His words are unsettling and she’s about to beg him to stay – the hatter can retrieve what he wants on his own – when the sorcerer kisses the top of her head and pulls away. Before she can say another word he strikes a dramatic pose, making her giggle and steps into the portal, vanishing into another dimension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about Doctor Who reference. Lame, I know.


	20. Detour

“What do you mean, you don’t have a body?” Rumpelstiltskin shouts and his angry voice is empowered by the vast empty space of the tower that serves as Victor Frankenstein’s laboratory. “You said I pulled you out in the middle of an operation!”

“So you did, but I found you’d not want to take _that_ ,” the doctor gestures at his operating table and the sorcerer nearly gags at the display.

“Oh how exceptionally lovely,” Jefferson comments, stepping closer to Victor and sneaking an arm across his shoulder. “Does mommy know what kind of tools you’re playing with here?”

“I would like you to refrain from such remarks, sir,” Frankenstein says through gritted teeth keeping his face as expressive as a stone. “And keep your hands off me!”

Jefferson begins to giggle when the doctor shrugs his arm off.

“Oh why is that, Vic? Your assistant will be jealous?”

“I do not understand what you are implying, sir,” the man replies coolly, raising his eyebrows in mild interest, which only makes the hatter laugh harder.

“And I do not understand why you keep calling me sir but I find it quite amusing!”

“Frankenstein, I hate to waste time. You said…”

“I _know_ what I said, necromancer. Don’t touch that!” he snaps and Jefferson drops the glass retort he was holding.

“Oopsie,” he shrugs. “My bad, love. Not to worry, our lizard wizard will pay for it.”

“What did you call me?” Victor spits out with disgust. “It’s Doctor Victor von…”

“Oh I know your titles, love,” the hatter waves his hand in the air dismissively and the doctor turns red in the face at such disregard to his persona. “No need to bore me with them again. You were saying?..”

“I was saying we need to take a little trip to get what you wanted.Igor!” he shouts and it takes several minutes until the trio hears uneven dragging steps of his assistant.

“Yes, master,” comes a polite reply when Igor enters the roombut he stops immediately when he sees Rumpelstiltskin. “M-m-master! T-that m-man!” He stutters, eyes bulging out which the sorcerer finds quite tiring and Jefferson – amusing; then again, what doesn’t seem funny when you are slightly on the crazy side?

“Why does he call you master?” the hatter snickers. “Is it like some kind of perversion or fantasy role-play?”

“Get lost, you silly creature!” Victor snaps.

“In a castle like that? Easily, love. But then you’re stuck with that grumpy character,” he points at Rumpelstiltskin with his thumb over his shoulder; Igor keeps staring, his mouth falling slightly ajar and the sorcerer anticipates a scream of horror in approximately three seconds.

“Frankenstein, tell your twisted pet not to stare,” he huffs. “Or I will turn him into a rat.”

“Igor, I kindly ask you to treat our guests as _normal_ people,” the doctor says sternly, the end of his sentence being lost in another giggling fit of the hatter. “Now, I need the carriage with the usual set of instruments, as promptly as you can bridle the horses.”

“Yes, master, it’ll be done swiftly, master,” the man makes an awkward bow but his eyes are still glued to Rumpelstiltskin. He makes his exit, awkwardly moving sideways not to risk turning his back at the unusual visitor who threatened to turn him into a rat.

“So, where are we going?” Jefferson inquires cheerfully as Frankenstein turns away and marches to the wardrobe. “Why do you have a wardrobe in the lab? Doesn’t the smell get into the clothes?”

Victor shrugs and doesn’t honour the last statement with a reply; he begins to dress himself meticulously, rolling the sleeves of his shirt down to cuff them and reaching to pull out a long leather coat he slides into effortlessly.

“We are taking a detour,” he explains, finishing his attire with a pair of black gloves and a top hat. “I will hold up to my end of the deal.”

“Why are you wearing that?” Jefferson squeals, pointing at the doctor’s head. “It’s plain stupid; who wears a top hat nowadays?”

“Pointless to argue, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin notes; the look on the doctor’s face is priceless as he dumbly stares at Jefferson wearing the replica of his own hat, maybe slightly more worn with a wrinkled brim. The man takes hold of Victor’s upper arm and urges him out of the laboratory. “Come on, let’s go, I don’t want to be stuck in this dull world longer than necessary.”

***

The hatter’s rambling about the ridiculous habits of people and even more outrageous style of dress doesn’t cease for a moment during their bumpy ride in the carriage, thus giving Rumpelstiltskin a headache. He feels like it’s a bad story scenario – going to the cemetery at night in the company of a mad scientist and an even more insane fairy tale fellow. He wishes he had just left Jefferson at his Caste or, better yet, asked Frankenstein to fetch what they needed in a couple of days with little fuss.

He trips over a root protruding from the ground as they walk across the yard; who bloody thought of planting trees there? And who doesn’t take a lantern while going out at night? At least it’s not a full moon to complete the cliché situation; only a slim curved line of the lunar disk visible in the sky of thin clouds gives enough light to see where they are going but not to make out the ground. The doctor is carrying two shovels and a sac voyage, lips squeezed into a thin line as he occasionally shoots whistling Jefferson a scornful glare.

“Will you stop that?” Victor snaps finally.

“Stop what?”

“Whistling. It’s annoying and may draw attention to us.”

“Fine,” the hatter rolls his eyes but the silence doesn’t last for long. “Oh, guys, guys, I’ve remembered something. Do you wanna hear a joke?”

“Not bloody likely,” Rumpelstiltskin grumbles but he is not that naïve to believe his answer will discourage Jefferson.

“Listen, listen! So it goes like this: a scientist, a wizard and an absurdly handsome hatter walk into the graveyard…”

“Pardon me, but how could such a hypothetical situation be amusing?”

“Good gods, Frankenstein, it is not a hypothetical situation because we _are_ doing it and stop provoking him!” Rumpelstiltskin pinches the bridge of his nose tiredly, regretting this affair more and more with each passing heartbeat.

“No, you stop,” the doctor says. “Stop, because we’re already here.”

“What a lovely tombstone!” the hatter praises and luckily Victor doesn’t comment on that to elicit another silly speech out of him. He leans the shovels against a nearby tree and puts his carpetbag on the ground, unclasping it and reaching inside.

“Wear this,” he suggests, throwing a leather bundle first to the sorcerer and then to Jefferson.

Rumpelstiltskin unfolds it to reveal a long leather apron, the middle section of which holds old stains of something… well he doesn’t want to dwell on what it is.

“I am not putting this on,” the hatter scowls indignantly, pinching the apron between his thumb and forefinger and holding it on the armlets away from himself. “No, thank you, love, I’ll pass. Is it love or master? Or, perhaps, you are a love master, Vic?”

“Dearie, do us a favour and shut up already!” Rumpelstiltskin hisses, his patience running low. “Pray tell, why do I need an apron?”

“If you want to getsoil onto your clothes, it’s also fine by me,” Frankenstein shrugs. “But you have to dig deep.”

“Alright, alright. Jefferson, help me out,” Rumpelstiltskin sighs and pushes his head through the loop of the apron, tying it up behind this back and trying not to think too much on things the doctor has done while wearing it.

“What was that?” the hatter swirls his finger in his left ear absent-mindedly, losing interest in reality completely.

“I said, stop propping up that tree and help me dig!”

“Why would I do that?” he asks with genuine concern and the man growls.

“Because it would be faster, that is why.” He tries to break it out for the hatter, speaking slowly and clearly even as the irritation boils in his blood.

“Magic would be faster,” Jefferson points out wisely and Rumpelstiltskin has to bite his tongue not to curse him on the spot. He doesn’t want to waste magic in case Frankenstein tries something downright stupid and it would probably take him weeks to recharge the loss of power in this world.

“Screw both of you,” he mutters, grasping a smooth wooden shaft of a spade and sinking it into the fresh soil.

“Later, love, if you insist,” Jefferson calls mockingly, crossing his arms over his chest. “So, you want to hear the end of the joke?”

“No!” the two men shout in chorus and the hatter pouts.

He starts humming a song and Rumpelstiltskin cares to make out only the first line – “I’m digging in the dirt to find places I got hurt” – but that’s enough for him to grit his teeth and double his efforts; he wants all that to be over, _now_. Jefferson keeps singing, loudly making occasional comments on the sorcerer’s progress and not a single warning of the doctor or the threat of being found succeeds in making him stop.

***

“Gentleman, I am pleased to announce it all went rather smoothly,” the doctor pronounces when they return to his lab.

“Speak for yourself,” Rumpelstiltskin grumbles, dumping a heavy bag onto the floor and still feeling cross at the hatter who insisted on retuning to Frankenstein’s castle because it was a _lovely_ place and him and Betsy wanted to see it again.

“A drink before departure?” Victor offers, losing his posh and being quite a happy host once his fingers squeeze the fat purse of gold Rumpelstiltskin provided.

The sorcerer cares little for drink or the doctor’s attempt at friendly play, but _of course_ the hatter must take a drink and _of course_ it has to be in the lab full of shiny cutting instruments, body parts and tangled wires spread on the rough stone walls.

Frankenstein disposes of his gloves (why did he even bother dressing up? the git didn’t even _do_ much apart from snapping at Igor to avoid road pots) and holds three glass test-tubes to the light to check if they are clean. Satisfied that the glass had not been stained, he fishes out a bottle of clear fluid and pours it into the tubes.

“Don’t you have glasses, Frankenstein?” Rumpelstiltskin sneers but takes the doctor’s offering.

“I do but if I send Igor to fetch proper kitchenware, he’ll probably smash them upon seeing you in the light again.”

“I see the time you spend with the hatter wasn’t wasted; apparently, who has the audacity to call humour is contagious,” the man fends-off half-heartedly, too tired to truly be angered. He wants to be back in his Castle, to slide into a warm tub to wash off the stench of soil and death that is clinging to his hair, to get into bed and wrap his arms around Belle. It feels like it’s been centuries since they parted and he is stuck in this personal hell with the doctor who hasn’t got an ounce of humour and the hatter who cannot stay serious for a second; all the Dark Ones combined couldn’t have committed as many sins.

“To our prosperous cooperation,” Victor toasts.

 _May it be another dozen years before we see each other again_ , Rumpelstiltskin thinks acidly, keeping his face straight.

“And Betsy,” the hatter interferes, making the sorcerer’s eyes hurt from rolling them so often.

“And to Betsy, whoever this fair maiden may be,” the doctor agrees, rewarded with the biggest grin Jefferson could manage and tips over the test tube.

“What is it, exactly?” Rumpelstiltskin inquires, watching Victor’s face scrunch up as he swallows.

“Watered down alcohol,” the doctor explains and reaches for the bottle to pour himself another measure.

“Hope it’s not poisonous to people from our world,” Jefferson drawls pensively, sniffing the fluid but then shrugging and draining his portion.

Rumpelstiltskin is torn between doubts and rapidly growing anxiety to find himself in the company of the drunken hatter. He shivers at the idea and has no choice but to put the glass to his lips.

***

Strangely enough, the fact that he crawls out of the hat on all fours in his great hall doesn’t seem as humiliating as it should. The sun is still high and the mercilessly bright rays make his head throb unpleasantly and his eyes shut against his will.

“You’re back!” the excited shriek makes it only worse as his stomach turns at the overwhelming stimulation of his senses.

Gentle hands try to lift him and he fights weakly only to find himself propped against something hard and angled that digs into his spine and he grunts. Insistent hands stroke his face and it’s nice, he likes the touch until treacherous palms deal him a smack across his right cheek.

“Oww,” he whines, opening his eyes and straining to focus them on the blurry image of white and blue and chestnut that his mind refuses to identify. “Second shelf on the left, round green jar,” he croaks, wincing at the sounds of his voice. “My head, Merlin’s balls, my poor head.”

The hands disappear and he idly wonders if he should retch on the carpet or try to transfer himself to the bathroom without splitting himself in two. Maybe if he concentrates hard enough, he can conjure a night pot but his head drops onto his shoulder and the man decides he’s quite content like that. If only that pounding stopped.

“Dearie, I have never noticed how heavy your steps are,” he comments, words slurring together as his tongue feels too think for his mouth. “You make a dragon’s walk sound light as a pixie’s.”

She huffs and cradles the back of his head, pressing a blissfully cold glass to his lips. The potion slides down his throat, calming his unsettled stomach and erasing the unpleasant dizziness and pulsing pain from his head.

“A dragon, huh?” he opens his eyes to find Belle bent over him, hands on her hips but she looks more amused than insulted. “Now that’s a compliment a girl doesn’t hear often.”

“You’re a saviour, my dear,” he says and grasps the hand she offered to stand up.

“So, what happened?”

“Frankenstein and his vile drinking habits happened,” Rumpelstiltskin grumbles, shivering at the memory. How did it even get to that point? “It’s a new record of getting wasted under the course of several hours and I didn’t even have even a half of their share.”

“I suppose, you’ve obtained what you needed otherwise you’d not be able to return here without the doctor, right?” Belle jerks her chin in the direction of a shapeless sac on the floor. A miracle they did make it, the man thinks. “Is he all right?” she adds worryingly as the sorcerer bends down to inspect the third man.

“Oh I’m sure he is,” he sneers and to confirm his words, Jefferson, sprawled on the floor, makes a loud snore. “Remind me to never take him to the doctor again, no matter how good of an idea it might seem.”

He waves his hand over the bag, making it vanish and cocks his head, eyeing the hatter critically.

“Do you think he needs a pillow or won’t he care?” he asks Belle.

“What did you do with the body?” She takes the pillow the man offers and gently raises Jefferson’s head to slide it under him in an attempt to make the hatter comfortable. The girl also picks up the hat, placing it next to him so that it’s the first thing he sees when he wakes up.

“Preservation spell to store it where our curious friend won’t find it,” he explains and Belle gasps.

“That’s not fair! You promised to give it to him!”

“I did and I will, as soon as he helps you with the hat.”

“Rumpelstiltskin, that’s cheating,” Belle snaps disapprovingly but he’s not a bit disturbed by it.

“I am known for keeping my deals, but could you say that about _him_?”

“Rumpelst…”

“No use arguing. You make the hat, he gets it. It won’t be any other way!” he says marching out of the hall feeling her judging eyes burn his back.

***

“No, no, no and _no_!” Belle sighs in despair, watching Jefferson twist and turn her hideous attempt at sowing the hat. “As much as I appreciate the asymmetry, this is just…” He shakes her creation violently, his eyes wide and appalled. Ever since Rumpelstiltskin informed him that he was not getting anything until the required hat was complete, Jefferson has been nothing but cranky, moody and snapping.

“B-but…” the girl triesbut he doesn’t listen.

“Garbage,” he decides, tossing it away.

“Jefferson!”

“Rubbish! Complete and utter trash. Another piece of fabric you ruined. Your failure is insulting to the craft of hat-making. There is not a drop of magic in this litter!”

“How can I make it if you’re not telling me _how_ it should be done!” After days spent sowing even Belle’s patience is running short. Her fingers are tender from the prickles of the needle that marked them more than once. In most cases it’s not because of her clumsiness or being careless, but because her tutor has a bad habit of appearing behind her or shouting something that startles the girl. Even despite Rumpelstiltskin’s soothing salve which he applies to her fingertips to heal them, they are still achy and she’s beginning to hate the needle, swearing to never pick it up anytime soon. Jefferson doesn’t make it any easier, constantly criticizing her or simply dozing with his legs propped on the table and his top hat over his eyes. He springs up immediately at the smallest chance to beat her up over her futile attempts at creating a proper hat. “You haven’t even given me any template!”

“You should find your own way! You should let your feelings guide you, not some irrelevant measurements!” he fumes. “Stop wasting my time! I’m beginning to think you’re doing it on purpose. You and your beloved lying lizard have tricked me and are doing your worst to keep me away from my family!” ranted the hatter who, exhausted from his diatribe, closed himself into a stiff and purposeful cloister.

With silence ringing in her ears, Belle sighs, feeling guilty. The hatter is the first person she met who hasn’t judged her for being with Rumpelstiltskin, who accepted them without a hint of surprise and who was robbed from the opportunity to go to the land he desired until the hat was complete.

“Jefferson, I am so sorry,” she says quietly, reaching out to pat his hand and he sighs.

“I know, love, it’s not your fault. Hats can be stubborn and whimsical, I know that,” he says and clasps his left hand over his mouth. “I hope Betsy hasn’t heard that,” he whispers and Belle smiles.

“I’m sure she hasn’t, but if she did…” the girl reaches behind her head, pulling a green satin ribbon from her hair, “here, you can appease her with this.”

The hatter takes the ribbon, running it between his fingers thoughtfully before solemnly taking the hat off and tying it around.

“Deepest gratitude and admiration from Betsy and me, love,” he says, placing a brief kiss to her palm. He turns her hand, running his fingertips across her wrist and down to her calloused fingers. “You are getting blisters,” he observes with regret. “Would you mind taking a break?”

“Not at all,” Belle consents, after hours spent indoors and licks her arm through his elbow, following the man outside.

They take a leisurely stroll around the castle and when Jefferson turns to lead her to the gardens, they hear a soft clatter of hooves.

“Oh hello there,” the hatter turns to Llyr and reaches out to pet his nuzzle before Belle can stop him. To her surprise, the kelpie closes his eyes and butts against the man’s hand.

“Usually he’s not so welcoming,” she says apologetically, but he smiles.

“I am good with horses, magical or not. Used to keep a large herd back at home,” he says sadly.

“What happened?” she doesn’t mean to pry but at the same time can’t help being curious.

Jefferson doesn’t respond immediately, running his fingers through the kelpie’s mane.

“I lost them,” he says simply and Belle’s heart throbs at the bitterness and pain in those three words. “Grace is all I have left and even she was taken away from me.”

“Is Grace the one who is trapped in Wonderland?” she guesses and the hatter nods gravely, not meeting her eyes.

“Would you like to see her?” he suddenly offers and Belle smiles at him.

“Of course I would.”

Jefferson reaches inside his coat, pulling out a thin folded sheet of paper. He opens it with great care, revealing a child’s drawing.

“That’s Grace,” he points to a stick figure in the centre, wearing a triangle of bright pink and a red smile that goes far beyond the corners of her face. “And Alice,” he says with a broken tenderness, tapping his finger at a woman with yellow hair sticking straight up. “And me, of course,” the man with a black square on his head holding a sphere with a stick. Guessing by the spiralling grey thing, Belle thinks it must be a teapot. The hatter snatches the paper away from Llyr who attempts to chew on its corner and just as carefully hides it away. “Alice and I were so proud when she drew that. Years ago…when we still were a family,” he adds dreamily and Belle chokes on her words. She wants to assure him everything will be alight and he will get his daughter back to start over; that it is never too late to seize the chance for happinessbut they finish the walk in silence, each of them engrossed in their own thoughts.

Despite his insistence on quitting for the day and trying tomorrow, Belle picks up the needle again. She bites her bottom lip in concentration, carefully measuring each stitch. She thinks of the hatter and his child, separated from each other, lost in different worlds. She thinks of Rumpelstiltskin, probably pacing in his turret waiting for her to succeed. She thinks of times she has felt happy with him and times when she felt vulnerable. She recalls Regina and her lover who now lies broken in the middle of the sea; Alice with blonde hair, who she never knew but feels like they could be friends.

Magic or not, the first hat is finished within two hours and she sets working on the matching one without a pause. The hatter doesn’t say a word, perched on the edge of his chair and leaning forward with his whole body, but his close attention doesn’t bother the girl a bit. She tries to remember everything that happened to her during those two years, good and bad, the times she smiled and the times she cried and when she makes the final knot and bites the thread off in a haze, she knows that this time it worked.

“You did it,” Jefferson says, clapping his hands together, half-amazed and half-proud. “You actually did it, love.”

“I wouldn’t have without your help,” Belle says and squeaks when he scoops her in his arms and swings the girl around.

“What the hell am I witnessing, exactly?” a grumpy voice comes from behind, making them break apart. “Hatter, can’t I leave you two in the same room, unattended, without you getting your hands all over the girl?”

“It’s not like you two are engaged or something, right?” the hatter says smugly, breaking into a grin at Rumpelstiltskin’s confusion. “Oh stay calm; I am not stealing your not-bride. Unless you ask me to, love,” he winks at Belle. “Just whisper a word and I will take you to any land your heart might desire.”

“That is a discussion I would _not_ like to return to again,” the man snarls, pulling the girl against him possessively and she pokes his chest reproachfully.

“Behave, now. And I am happy to announce that it’s done.” Belle picks the hat up, proudly displaying it as Rumpelstiltskin’s eyebrows shoot up.

“But, sweetheart, it’s… it’s _orange_ ,” he points out in bewilderment and the hatter nods enthusiastically - almost sending Betsy flying to the floor.

“Excellent observation, old friend. Now I see why they call you the wise Dark One – it takes a lot of skill to recognize something obvious for what it is.”

“Why is it orange?” the sorcerer ignores the snippy remark, turning his eyes to the girl.

“Because I ran out of black felt.”

“You could ask me for it,” he says begrudgingly, shooting Jefferson a dirty look. “Unless someone here wanted to mock me.”

“Pfft orange is in fashion now. And don’t even think of messing with the colour, you can disrupt the fragile magic there, I tell you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have my own happy ending to attend to. A delight meeting you, my dear,” he bows to Belle whose name he still hasn’t asked, “but not so much with you,” he informs Rumpelstiltskin. “Now, which way?..”

“Second floor, third door on the left. Don’t leave a mess after your departure,” the sorcerer offers and Jefferson, raising his hat, leaves the room without any further word.

Rumpelstiltskin’s heart races in his throat as his fingers knead the brim of Belle’s ridiculously orange creation.

“Are you ready?’ she whispers and he nods, his dry lips refusing to form a word.

She gives him a nervous smile as they sit at the table opposite each other. He doesn’t know how it should work and feels like a complete idiot, hoisting it on top of his head and watching the girl mirror his movements. Unlike him, she looks confident – she’s always been so patient and brave with him. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and lets the magic of the hat engulf him. It’s gentle as the whisper of a breeze, careful and light, unobtrusive but strong nevertheless. His chest might burst from all the feelings downing him – hope and despair, knowledge it won’t be easy and acceptance of him, frustration and tenderness, and most of all, shining through everything he sees -  the warm embracing feel of her affection.

When the blur of images stops and he opens his eyes, he meets a sea of worried blue. She is paler then usual and almost on the verge of tears. How long has she sat here, waiting for him to remember? Rumpelstiltskin reaches for her face, unable to restrain a smile even as her lashes are damp and her lips all bruised because of him.

“I remember now,” he whispers against her skin. “I love you.”

His lips swallow the sob of relief she makes and her arms fly to his shirt grabbing the fabric to pull him closer. She kisses him desperately as if she’s afraid he will push her away and vanish, as is there is no tomorrow for them now. But he knows that this time, there is happiness in their future, as bright and tangible, as his love for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the pressing need to thank the following people (based on their comments and not common sense; in alphabetical order not to make anyone accidentally jealous of not being on the very top):  
>  **addict2films** for being so worried about Rumple’s memory but wouldn’t say no to smut;  
>  **belle** , who got slightly confused by the Hatter, Besty and Victor being jumbled all in one chapter but still liked it;  
>  **BlytheParis** for her curiosity to find out how the fic developed;  
>  **CharlotteAshmore** for giving the chapters a read-through;  
>  **deweymay** for sharing my love for dark and angst-y way OaKE ended;  
>  **dreams_love_magic** for paying attention to author notes;  
>  **DustyMarch** for her kind words (are you and **deweymay** somehow connected?);  
>  **Eneath** for her constant support;  
>  **Fred** for squirming impatiently while waiting for the sequel;  
>  **Grace52373** for being all up for fluff although I’ve probably disgusted her by speaking up for Zelena;  
>  **Guest** (aka my most devoted hater) for staying authentic to her bitchy self;  
>  **Jennifer Hoey** for saying pretty please;  
>  **jewel415** for showing immense support on fanfiction.net and still leaving reviews even after the read the latest chapters on here;  
>  **K** for taking time to send some love my way;  
>  **Karina Garcia** for sharing my beliefs summoning the Dark One for a make-out is totally legit;  
>  **kceniya** for thinking I’m awesome (don’t argue, let me have this one!);  
>  **Kirstie** for finding magic in my artless writing;  
>  **Latte** for awesome advice to mentally tell the haters off;  
>  **littlestlionheart** for desperately wishing Belle didn’t ride into the sunset without Rumple;  
>  **nicksmom3612** for standing up for me (you have no idea how your comment helped!);  
>  **Partyinthetardis12** for coming all the way here from fanfiction.net to find out how everything went and grumbling at the cliffhangers;  
>  **Rioghna** for being full of plot ideas even if they morphed beyond recognition in my brain;  
>  **Rowena** for being excited about the sequel;  
>  **sandi** for being eager to read my stuff;  
>  **Serebril** for spurring me on;  
>  **tasertrickshipper** for demanding a chapter 2;  
>  **The_Lark** for not being shy to say she loved my work;  
>  **Valérie** for looking forward to reading more;  
>  **WatcheroftheHearts** for expecting new updates;  
>  **woodelf** for calling out my bullshit kelpie facts even though it was too late to change a thing;  
>  **zephyrrising** for shedding some tears over Rumple’s memory loss (hope you didn’t hate me too badly for it!).  
>  Ginormous **THANK YOU** to you guys; there has not been a single comment that failed to make me smile. My eternal gratitude to all those users and guests who left kudos. I hope following the story was worth the wait for the updates and if I occasionally disappointed you, it was not in a major way.

**Author's Note:**

> Moment of shameless promotion. I'm now a co-admin of a Rumbelle group on [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/RumbelleFairytale?fref=nf)  
> How are we different from a gazillion of other groups? We have daily #NighTales - short stories with accompanying arts to spark your imagination before sleep ;)


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